


Busan 112

by Havokftw



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Awkward Flirting, BAMF Jihoon, BAMF Seungcheol, Crime Fighting, Developing Friendships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Good Cop Bad Cop, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jicheol/Coupzi, M/M, Mutual Pining, Partners to Lovers, Police, Police Uniforms, Serial Killers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2018-11-22 23:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 130,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11390856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: Jihoon’s been at Busan Police station for three years, and he still gets mistaken as a kid dressing up for Halloween.It’s so fucking unfair.Jihoon’s not jealous. He’s just angry that the meritocracy is failing him.And what makes this worse, what makes this harder to bear, is that Seungcheol is hot as hell and looks fucking amazing in his police uniform.It’s his only saving grace, Jihoon thinks.





	1. Breach of the peace

Jihoon is a damn good cop.

Jihoon is a law enforcement professional.

Jihoon has a flawless competency record, and graduated from the police academy at the top of his class. He was recognised with both the academic award and the firearms marksmanship award and recorded the highest scores of his class in both categories. He was the only cadet to be cited with the leadership award in his year and was ranked in 97th percentile for physical fitness.

Jihoon has a keen cop mind and an intuitive gut that always directs him to make the right decisions. He’s never been caught unawares. Jihoon has never accidentally fired his weapon, damaged his patrol vehicle or injured a bystander during an altercation, and that’s including the time he had a shoot-out with a suspect on a fucking rollercoaster.

Jihoon can arrest two perps simultaneously while reciting their Miranda rights. He can face down a violent psychopath in a dark alley, without back up and possibly blindfolded— _possibly_. Jihoon is able to sound authoritative, reassuring, and trustworthy, all at the same time. He can negotiate a suspect out of a hostage situation or talk a suicidal man down without stuttering or breaking a sweat.

And despite his shorter stature and his cute as a button look, Jihoon has fucking  _gravitas_. 

At 24, Jihoon is the youngest officer ever in the stations history to be considered for a promotion to the rank of detective sergeant. He started out in the homicide division after he graduated from the academy, spent a few awful months in the traffic division (never again), got the experience he needed and moved on to vice where he’s been cleaning up Busan’s streets.

Jihoon loves his city, and he won’t stop kicking ass and taking names (and licence and registration please) until it’s safe and he’s sitting at a desk having earned the title of Chief of Police. Ideally Master Chief of Police, but he’d settle for Chief.

Sometimes you have to compromise.

Jihoon is going to get there one day because he deserves it and God knows he's worked his little ass off. 

But right now, he has a problem.

That problem’s name is Seungcheol.

* * *

 

Some of the guys in the precinct call him _Cheol_ , some call him _Dimples_ _McDimple_ _face_ and the Rookies refer to him as _Officer_ _Choi_.

Jihoon has mentally christened him “Fucking,” as in “Fucking Choi Seungcheol,” which is how Jihoon usually refers to him when he’s talking to himself. Not that he talks to himself about Seungcheol all that much. Definitely not.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol swanned in with his Daegu accent, his exuberant handshakes, wincing white smiles and a police academy certificate that was probably forged, and the Station Captain loved him on the spot.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol shows up late to his shifts, takes extra long lunches and gets a pat on the back cause he’s probably rescuing cats and helping little old ladies cross the street.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol flaunts departmental procedure, goes undercover without approval, forges the signatures on arrest warrants and even dangles suspects off the edge of a building to get confessions.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol flirts with the District Attorney, the Pathologist, the Forensics team, the court appointed doctor, the Judge and even a few shady criminals just to get ahead of the game.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol--

“Hey, Jihoon.” Seungcheol whispers across the small space that separates their desks. “Look at this blood spatter pattern.” He says, holding up a picture of a recent crime scene photo. “If you join up the blood spatter, doesn’t it look like a huge dick?” He says thoughtfully.

“You’re unbelievable.” Jihoon says, shaking his head.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol is, in short, the most unprofessional cop Jihoon has ever worked with.

And Busan _loves_ him. 

Actually, thanks to a hostage situation at a bank, the power of the internet and Seungcheol’s immense good fortune the entire  _country_  loves him.

He’s been at the Busan Police Department for four months and he’s already got a nationwide fan network. He’s pulled out of shift rotation time and time again to attend ribbon cutting ceremonies and shake hands with important people and kiss babies.

People tweet and retweet blurry cell phone photos of him on patrol (“OMG look at his thighs?!?!”). Groups of fans wait outside the station hoping to meet him. There’s a YouTube video titled _“HOTTEST COP EVER!! Best of Busan Police Hero.”_ that’s gotten like six million hits.

Jihoon’s been at Busan Police station for three years, and he still gets mistaken as a kid dressing up for Halloween.

It’s so fucking unfair.

Jihoon’s not jealous. He’s just angry that the meritocracy is failing him.

And what makes this worse, what makes this harder to bare is that Seungcheol is hot as hell and looks  _fucking amazing_  in his police uniform.

It’s his only saving grace, Jihoon thinks.

Fucking Choi Seungcheol wears a uniform that’s two sizes too small and accentuates every curve in his body. His trousers hug his ass and sometimes he leaves his shirt unbuttoned enough that you can see his collarbone. (Not that Jihoon is looking.)

If it weren’t against police regulations, Jihoon’s pretty sure somebody in the precinct would have started a Facebook group devoted to the way Seungcheol’s ass looks in those trousers. His ass would have its own joke Twitter account, maybe a Tumblr page and a Pinterest board.

Jihoon could probably have pretended to like him. He's done a lot of 'pretending to like people' and he understands how it's easier for a peaceful life, even if it is sometimes exhausting. But, since Seungcheol is the jammiest person on the planet and getting recognition for supposed feats of bravery right, left and centre, Jihoon's finding it a lot more difficult to pull off the whole liking thing without regular nosebleeds in sheer frustration.

 

* * *

 

Near the end of a busy Friday evening shift, Jihoon is catching up on some paperwork at his desk.

The difference between police work in real life and police work on TV is the paperwork.

Cops on TV never do any paperwork. In fact no one on TV seems to do any paperwork at all. How does that work out?

It’s a fucking mystery where all those files and reports and leads actually come from. The cops on TV seem to get a lot of convenient phone calls with tip-offs from anonymous do—gooders that lead them to all the clues. How fucking convenient.

Not to mention Cops on TV always find a vital piece of evidence _just_ before they’re forced to drop the case. It might not make for riveting action sequences, but you never see cops on TV spend an entire day watching hours and hours of CCTV footage, and then doing three more hours of paperwork, and then  _filing_  the paperwork.

All while drinking bad coffee that tastes just as good hot as it did cold. When you're a real cop like Jihoon, you’re lucky if you get coffee hot.

You have to earn the hot coffee in this station.

He hasn't quite figured out what you have to do to earn the good coffee yet, but he's working on it.

Sometimes Jihoon hates the fictional cops on TV, almost as much as he hates Seungcheol.

Speaking of which….

“Everyone, gather round, I have an important announcement to make.” Their station captain, Kim Namjoon, announces.

“Today, not only did Choi Seungcheol accept the 'Hero of Busan' award from the Mayor for his outstanding bravery in the line of duty. But on the way to the ceremony—he foiled a convenience store robbery before it even took place and apprehended the suspects without bloodshed.” Namjoon says, pushing Seungcheol forward into the limelight.

There is a flurry of applause and Seungcheol does a great job of nodding humbly as everyone cheers and pats him on the back.

“Honestly, it’s nothing you guys. I was just doing my job.” Seungcheol says quietly; in that vaguely embarrassed way he has when the situation probably doesn't call for it. Seungcheol seems to like being embarrassed so much he makes up his own reasons to be.

He plays at being humble so well, it’s fucking infuriating.

“Excuse me, but didn’t you drive your patrol car through a bus?” Jihoon pipes up, having to stand on his desk to speak over all the cheering.

Seungcheol’s smile falters a little. “Uhh—yeah.”

Jihoon continues. “And before that, did you not drive through two shops windows, 40 telephone poles and knock the power out in a 10 block radius?”

Seungcheol tips his head to the side, agreeing that Jihoon may be speaking the truth. “Uhhm, sure.”

“And didn’t you blow a fuel tanker up during the chase and incur hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of collateral damage? Isn't that true, _hero of Busan_?” Jihoon can’t help letting the sarcasm slide into his voice towards the end.

The whole situation is ridiculous.

“Wow, you’re right Jihoon.” Captain Namjoon says, looking very serious. And then, “I was completely underselling it. Seungcheol risked his life and **we should** petition the city to give him another award!” he declares.

“That’s not what I meant!” Jihoon squawks. But it’s too late, any argument he can muster is drowned by the incessant cheering.

Looking around, Jihoon sees excitement, adoration and love in the other officer’s eyes. He's surrounded by sycophants.

“Why do I bother.” He mutters under his breath, half chastising himself.

This isn’t technically that big of a surprise, since Seungcheol has a talent for breaking every rule in the handbook and getting rewarded for it instead of the slap on the wrist he deserves.

Despite that, it never stops Jihoon from trying to make people see sense.

“Speech!” Soonyoung calls out.

“No, I couldn’t.” Seungcheol protests, not entirely convincingly. “It was just luck you guys, I was there at the right time. Any one of you would have done the same.” He offers, in a tone that's faking modesty astonishingly well.

“Don’t be so modest Cheol! Give us some words of wisdom.” Vernon, the rookie, calls out.

Seungcheol only continues looking humble for a second, but eventually he says, “I believe it was the poet Alfred Pennyworth that said: _to strive, to seek, to find and not to yield._ Those are the words I live by. _"_ He says, looking stupidly emotional.

Jihoon barely manages to keep in his moan of exasperation. Really?

“Don’t you mean Alfred Tennyson? I’m pretty sure Alfred _Pennyworth_ was Bruce Wayne’s Butler for fucks sake!” Jihoon says incredulously, but people are clapping and cheering over him. Some idiots are actually shedding tears.

He sits down at his desk, and tries to look busy as the others move forward to congratulate Seungcheol on a job well done.

Jihoon, hunched over his screen, can’t help but notice that there’s a general atmosphere of pride in the room, with Seungcheol as its focus. Or maybe Seungcheol’s ass, he’s not sure. Either way, he doesn’t share in it.

Ten minutes later, the station returns to normal and, thankfully, everyone gets back to work.

Jihoon’s so engrossed in his report, he’s not prepared to find Seungcheol leaning over his chair when he turns to reach for a paperclip.

They’re practically cheek to cheek as Seungcheol peers over his shoulder and smiles like some sort of creeper that gets off on watching people tidy their desks.

Jihoon can’t slink away either, Seungcheol is so effectively boxing him in against the desk. The man seems incapable of supporting his own weight without leaning on things, like perhaps he’s so top heavy with his considerable muscle mass, that he needs the assistance to stay upright.

With their desks situated so close to each other, Jihoon has been witness to Seungcheol leaning on a many number things, like desks and walls and chairs and Jihoon himself on occasion. Sometimes he leans dramatically, arm outstretched and deep in thought. Other times he leans with his arms crossed and with an unnecessary amount of swagger. 

Seungcheol seems particularly happy now, leaning all over Jihoon with an arm tangled round Jihoon's neck, like some sort of enthusiastic, and muscular scarf.

“What?” Jihoon breathes out, a rough exhale that's surprise, and relief but also a different kind of tension, a bright, hot, red tension coiled low in his stomach.

Seungcheol looks at him, lifts an eyebrow. “A bunch of us are getting drinks after work. Do you-“

“No.” Jihoon interjects quickly.

“I have plans, with friends.” he says, belatedly, when he looks over his shoulder and realizes Seungcheol is still standing over him.

Seungcheol blinks a few times, as if he’s honestly thrown. “Oh, Okay. Maybe next time.” He says quietly, before finally retreating back to his desk.

Jihoon waits until Seungcheol’s a safe distance away, before sliding a hand down under the desk and adjusting his hard as iron cock.

Jihoon doesn’t have plans. Not _really._ It’s just that there is no place for the dark pull at his belly or the clench of attraction he feels looking at Seungcheol.

He’s always tried to keep his distance despite the intrigue he feels every time he interacts with the other cop. Granted, about sixty percent of that intrigue manifests as a tightening in his groin, but that’s hardly the point.

Sure, Seungcheol is pretty hot. _Whatever_.  None of this is new.

It’s just dumb, physical lust.

Emotionally, Jihoon doesn’t give a fuck. And that’s how he likes it.

* * *

 

While the other officers are getting ready to head home to their slumbering families and reheated dinners, Jihoon works overtime to write up the reports that manage to accumulate over the course of the day.

He’s clocked in two hours overtime when he decides to call it a day, and heads to the changing room.

He’s grabbing his stuff out of his locker when Seungcheol strolls over, hands in his pockets. He leans against the adjacent locker, in a way he clearly thinks is fierce and heroic and breathes in his ear. “Hello Jihoon.”

Jihoon swings on his heel smoothly, not letting his spiking heart-rate show. “What do you want?”

“Captain said he wants to meet with us in his office in fifteen minutes.”

Jihoon looks at him suspiciously. “Why?” He says defensively, because yes, there is perhaps a reason to be defensive here. 

Seungcheol shrugs. “I have no idea. Maybe we’re clocking in too much overtime.” He laughs.

Jihoon resists the urge to give him the finger as he walks away. That would be unprofessional.

Maybe Namjoon is finally going to tell Seungcheol to stop fucking about and learn from the professionals—like Jihoon. _Unlikely._

He’s more likely going to ask Jihoon to give up some of his desk space so Seungcheol has a place to store all his endless awards and fucking thank-you flowers.

* * *

 

Jihoon thinks he may be having a stroke. The universe seems to have developed a sense of humour that he disapproves of.

“That’s awesome news.” Seungcheol sounds positively delighted. Jihoon just stares.

His throat bobs as he swallows uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, I think I must have misunderstood you. What did you say?”

Namjoon’s looks at him over the top of his glasses.  “The chief of police wants—"

“Because it  _sounded_  like you said that I’m getting a promotion. But then you said something about getting a partner first, and that that partner is going to be Seungcheol, and there is  _no fucking way that can be true_.”

Seungcheol and Namjoon look at each other and have some sort of confusing conversation that Jihoon apparently isn't invited to. “The chief of police thinks—"

Jihoon is on his feet, scowling wrathfully just to make sure that everyone in the room understands how much he objects to this idea.  “There is  _no way_  that after all the hard graft I put in to get to detective—I’m getting paired with this guy.”

“You do realize I’m in the room, cupcake?” Seungcheol asks. His voice comes out slow and quiet and strangely lacking in any sort of irritation at all. It only pisses Jihoon off even more.

Jihoon rounds on Seungcheol. “What did you just call me?” Seungcheol looks entirely too composed, slouching in the adjacent chair with one leg crossed over the other. He looks irritatingly at ease; Jihoon half-expects him to kick back and put his boots up on Namjoon’s desk. 

“ _Jihoon._ ” Namjoon is standing, now, holding a hand out as though he thinks physical intervention may be necessary. “You’re both in line for the promotion. It’s not a competition. Working in a team is a crucial skill to have as a police officer and every other officer in this station has a partner except the for you and Dimples McDimples face.”  Namjoon says, with all-together too much seriousness.

“Can we please not call him that!” Jihoon seethes.

Namjoon lifts a placating hand. “I’m just saying, it makes sense to pair you together since you both perform above and beyond.”

Jihoon stops glaring at Seungcheol for a second so that he can roll his eyes, then puts them back where they were. He points a finger accusingly, moving it in time with his speech. “You did this! This is part of your nefarious plot to fuck with me! Well I don't care how heroic everyone thinks you are. I don't buy it and I refuse to be your side kick!”

Seungcheol continues to be infuriatingly calm, speaking as though soothing a wild animal. “This is the first I’ve heard of it and—side kick? _Seriously?”_

“Nobody is going to be anybody’s side kick Jihoon, you’re going to be partners!” Namjoon interjects. His eyebrows drawn down like he's prepared to take decisive action if Jihoon argues the point any further.

Jihoon pauses, recalculating. “No. I’d rather transfer.” he says, crossing his arms stubbornly.

Seungcheol’s eyebrows rise a fraction, innocent and wounded. “Hold up. That’s a little extreme Jihoon. We’ve never worked together before—why don’t you just give me a chance.”

Jihoon ignores him. If he pretends Seungcheol isn’t in the room, then he can resist the urge to put his fist through a wall. Just barely. “I want a transfer sir. Any department would be better than this.”

Namjoon makes a face, like he thinks Jihoon's overreacting.  “I thought you’d say that. Unfortunately, the only transfer available right now is to the traffic division.”

Jihoon bristles. “Traffic? I can’t believe this!”

It must look childish as hell when he stalks out without another word, but Jihoon doesn’t trust himself to stay calm if he has to be around either of them any longer.

Just before the door slams shut, he can hear Seungcheol calling out, “Jihoon wait!”

Jihoon grabs his jacket as he’s passing his desk and heads for the elevator.

“Jihoon!”

Jihoon recognizes the voice as Seungcheol, and continues walking.

Seungcheol is the last person he wants to talk to right now. Unfortunately, Seungcheol doesn’t take the hint and starts jogging; Jihoon can hear footsteps pounding down the hallway towards him, and the elevator doors appear to be getting further and further away like in a horror movie. When Seungcheol has caught up he puts a hand on Jihoon’s arm and Jihoon freezes, closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

“Jihoon, I know you’re not thrilled about this, but I really think we—  _oof_.”

Jihoon grabs Seungcheol by the collar of his incredibly tight shirt and shoves him against the wall. Seungcheol looks alarmed, which is vaguely satisfying, but not enough to make Jihoon unclench his fists from the polyester blend that’s making his palms itch. “I’ve been working my ass off here for three years to get this promotion and you’re not going to get in my way.” he hisses in Seungcheol’s face.

Seungcheol stares, nonplussed. “Jihoon.” He puts his hands over Jihoon’s and tugs gently.

Jihoon tightens his grip further, just to spite him. “ _No._  I don’t need you as a partner and most importantly, I don’t want you as one.”

Seungcheol sighs, and then in the blink of an eye Jihoon discovers that  _he’s_  the one pinned to the wall, Seungcheol’s forearm braced across his chest.

“What the--” Jihoon curses and pushes against him instinctively, trying to shove him off, but Seungcheol just presses in closer with intent, breath flaring over Jihoon’s face. His collar is loose, again, and Jihoon’s eyes keep drifting to the thick, muscular tendons of his neckline. Jihoon feels a hot, surging desire to punch him and maybe bite him too.

“Listen Jihoon. You need to calm down. I’m not trying to take your promotion from you. You heard the captain, there is a promotion in this for both of us and I think we both can get what we want if we work together.” Seungcheol’s says.

Jihoon struggles again, half-heartedly, mostly just to distract himself from how close Seungcheol is. It’s all getting unbearably warm right now.

“Look, I know you have a stick up your butt that makes you hate me, but—“

“I don’t have a stick up my butt, Seungcheol!” Jihoon snaps. “I just like things done the procedural way. I have respect for the badge!”

“Well, believe it or not,  _Jihoon_ , I respect the badge too. I just do things a little differently. Sure, it’s not always by the book but maybe that’s why the captain wants us to partner up—we’ll balance each other out. You can't deny that we both get the job done at the end of the day, despite our differences.” Seungcheol says softly.

It all sounds reasonable enough, Jihoon grants him that much. Then Seungcheol drops his voice a tad, locks gazes with him, and for a split-second Jihoon feels like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk.

“I think we can learn things from each other Jihoon. Lots of _interesting, new things.”_ Seungcheol practically purrs.

The panic recedes, leaving a strange flush of pleasure behind, which Jihoon fights down viciously with a kind of desperate, manufactured anger. “I’d like for you to let go of me now, Seungcheol.” He manages, with what he thinks is a heroic amount of coherence.

Seungcheol releases his hold on him and takes a wary step back.  He’s still looking at Jihoon, only now there's half a smirk on his face. Something interested and impatient. The day never ends well when Seungcheol wears that expression. “Can you maybe, try this arrangement before you ask for a transfer?” He asks, with a quietly pleading look.

Jihoon’s face is hot. His hands are damp but he summons up a veneer of calm from some bitchslapped depth of his psyche and sighs heavily. “Fine.”

Seungcheol smiles warmly. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm there, but guess I’ll have to take what you’re ready to give me.” he says, giving Jihoon a gentle shove in the direction of the elevator.

“Fuck you,” Jihoon responds, though his heart isn’t in it. Seungcheol must know it, because he just chuckles in response. Jihoon trudges over to the elevator bank and jabs the summoning button. He can hear Seungcheol’s footsteps slowly fading as the doors slide open with an incongruously cheerful  _ding_. 

Jihoon is stepping into the elevator when Seungcheol calls out. “So, can you pick me up tomorrow cupcake? My patrol car is still lodged inside that bus!”

This time Jihoon _does_  give him the finger.

 


	2. Failure to yield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First day as partners....

When Jihoon pulls his car up at Seungcheol’s address the next morning, he’s running 20 minutes ahead of schedule.

He didn’t anticipate that traffic would be so scarce this side of the city and gave himself a head start. So, he’s not expecting Seungcheol to be ready for at least another fifteen minutes.

Nevertheless, Jihoon’s irrationally furious that Seungcheol’s not immediately waiting by the side of the road.

_God damn, if you need a lift to work, at least have the curtesy to be ready 20 minutes before the agreed time! It’s only polite!_

Jihoon knows working in close quarters with someone that makes him rabidly horny isn’t going to do any favours for his already short temper.

Before they were partners, he would see Seungcheol every day anyway, even if it's just his car, or a glimpse of him across the station, leaning against things. But now it’s different. They’ll be spending _actual_ time together.

Just sharing a room with Seungcheol frays Jihoon’s composure. How can he expect to remain calm and collected when he’s sharing literal oxygen with the man. Now he’ll be up close and personal with Seungcheol’s tactlessness, his blind luck, his deceptive modesty, his arms….his thighs….his lush mouth.

 _Damn_ Jihoon’s classically Busan weakness for Daegu accents!

Jihoon distracts himself by completing his customary pre-patrol cruiser check.

He checks the oil, tops up the washer fluid; safety checks the belts, brakes, lights, tire pressure and thread depth.  Next, he inventories the equipment:

Gloves ☑

Patrol Rifle ☑

Radio/MDT ☑

In-car video system (IVS) ☑

First Aid Kit ☑

Blood borne Kit ☑

Fire extinguisher ☑

Traffic flares ☑

Blanket ☑

Great. Everything is in order. _Lovely._

Except one final thing, _oh yeah_....WHERE THE HELL IS SEUNGCHEOL!?

 Jihoon knows if it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have minded waiting. But because it’s _Seungcheol_ , because _Seungcheol’s_ the one who makes him question every hard-earned reward he’s ever had in his life, he’s ready to rip the man’s head off when he does appear.

Seungcheol waves at him from his front door with an awkward sort of half smile, as if he's genuinely pleased to see him. Jihoon checks the time on the dash clock and notes that Seungcheol is ten minutes _earlier_ than agreed. Jihoon can’t reprimand him for being late, even if he has been waiting for him.

Still, completely unacceptable!

Jihoon rolls down the window as Seungcheol approaches. “I’ve already performed the cruiser check. Everything is in order.”

“Cruiser check?” Seungcheol says slowly, like perhaps it’s something he’s never done in his life.

“ _Yes_ , the cruiser check. The pre-patrol check we should perform before we radio in to start our patrol shift.”

“Oh— _that_.” Seungcheol says around a laugh, like it's a strange and alien concept that he has no time for.

Jihoon stabs the button to roll his window back up.

What a great start to their partnership.

* * *

 

Their first shift together is a simple patrol of their jurisdiction and Jihoon starts to feel the prickle of irritation again, almost five minutes into their journey.

Patience has never been his strong suit and Seungcheol must have some kind of super ADHD because he can’t sit still or stop touching things.

He begins by adjusting the rear-view mirror, and Jihoon slaps his hand. Then he spins the car air-freshener until Jihoon rips it off and flings it out the window. He can’t seem to decide whether he wants the windows up or down, so he toys with the buttons until Jihoon sets window lock on. When he starts fiddling with the patrol radio Jihoon almost draws his gun on him.

Yeah, _okay_ , he’s being territorial—but this is HIS patrol car.

Seungcheol makes some noise of apology and stops touching the radio and everything else.

Jihoon adopts a circular pattern to patrolling, driving in ever increasing circles as they cover their district. It’s pretty routine stuff, but he almost drives through a red traffic light, he’s so distracted by the drumming of Seungcheol’s fingers on the centre console.

It’s not a typical gesture for him—and each rhythmic  _tap-tap tap-tap_  causes Jihoon’s frustration to wind tighter and tighter.

His discomfort probably becomes apparent because Seungcheol ceases the drumming and sits upright, eyes locking forward in a sightless stare. “Nice weather we have today.”

Jihoon harrumphs.

Two hours into patrol and they pass a suspicious looking vehicle. Jihoon notices the smashed tail light instantly, but it’s _Seungcheol_ who points out that the back of the vehicle is low to the ground. There is only one occupant, so it can’t be because the vehicle is overloaded. It’s a toss-up between poor shocks or contraband in the trunk weighing it down.

They exchange a silent look and agree to tail the vehicle overtly for a few blocks. Fortunately, the vehicle heads well away from the crowded, bustling streets towards suburbia, and Jihoon’s scraped nerves are soothed by the predictable rows of white houses and manicured lawns.

After witnessing the vehicle perform a minor driving infraction, Jihoon flips the siren and indicates for the car to pull over. He follows suit, parking the cruiser at an off-set angle approximately 15ft from the target car before radioing dispatch.

The licence plate check comes up with a prior hit and run, and a quick background check on the owner reveals several driving offences, unpaid fines and one prior conviction for possession of an illegal firearm.

The suspect is most likely armed.

The rush of adrenaline makes Jihoon feel like himself again. He swallows hard, dragging his eyes back to the road and mechanically starts the in-car video system as he opens his door.

“Hold up, I’ll get this.” Seungcheol says.

“So, you can throw them off a bridge for driving without due care and attention? I don’t think so. I’ll get it.” Jihoon snaps.

He recognizes that he’s being slightly overwrought; he’s built up Seungcheol’s boldness so much in his mind that at this point he’s expecting Seungcheol to start kneecapping people for littering offences.

Seungcheol sighs gustily. “Fine.”

Jihoon’s surprised he doesn’t put up more of an argument, unless he accepts that Jihoon is better at handling situations calmly. Everyone knows Seungcheol could make hello sound like an interrogation. 

Jihoon approaches the vehicle carefully. Hunch has him moving to the passenger side of the vehicle. Prudence has his hand on the butt of his gun, still holstered at his side but ready to be drawn.

“Is—so-something the matter officer?”

It’s a dead call. The suspect isn’t even a suspect. Just some idiot who bought a car of the wrong person and didn’t make the necessary safety checks before purchase.

Jihoon considers just cautioning him, then writes him a ticket anyway; a broken taillight is an accident waiting to happen.

When he returns to the patrol car the tension in his shoulders comes back with a vengeance. Seungcheol is sitting in the drivers seat, Jihoon’s seat, like he owns the place.

He might as well be pissing all over the tyres like a dog marking his territory!

He’s even adjusted the seating—the long-legged bastard.

“What are you doing?” Jihoon gestures, voice rising despite his best efforts

“What?” Seungcheol asks innocently.

“You’re in my seat,” Jihoon tells him through his teeth and when Seungcheol continues to stare at him like he doesn't get it. “—this is **_my_** patrol car.”  

“It’s protocol Jihoon.” Seungcheol says simply and Jihoon bites his cheek so hard he swears he can taste the sharpness of blood.

“ _Protocol_?” Jihoon spits.

“Yes. You insisted on being the engaging officer, and protocol dictates that the engaging officer shouldn’t also be the driver of the patrol car in a two-man patrol. In case we have to pursue the vehicle.” Seungcheol says. He’s talking to Jihoon like he’s doing him a _favour_ by explaining this in layman’s terms.

He has a voice that might very well make Jihoon a little weak in the knees if circumstances were different, but right now that just makes him resent him even more.

“I know what protocol is Seungcheol. I wrote the fucking book on protocol.”

“Did you?” Seungcheol says with feigned surprise, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn't look bothered in the slightest by Jihoon's slow simmering anger. “Well, then you must know I’m just following-“

“This so rich coming from you!” Jihoon interjects, crossing his own arms. “Since when do you follow protocol? You do whatever the hell you like all the damn time.” He says without missing a beat, and Seungcheol’s mouth twists, almost painfully.

“Not always.”

“Yes, always.” Jihoon insists.

Seungcheol’s face kind of spasms, and then drops in favour of something that looks sort of ill.  “Can’t we just—compromise a little here? I’m trying not to piss you off, but we both need to compromise--” Seungcheol trails off, shoulders dropping in a signal of defeat that sets fire to all of Jihoon’s frustration.

“Not over this. This is MY patrol car. I drive. You had a patrol car and you drove it through a bus. You will not be driving my patrol car through a bus. Get out.” Jihoon yells.

Seungcheol looks at him for a second, his mouth opens, and then shuts, jaw tendons flexing, as if he was going to say something and choked it back. He climbs out of the drivers seat and moves over to the other side.

Jihoon regrets his outburst almost immediately, cause Seungcheol actually stops talking.

Completely.

Not a peep.

The sudden, quiet void feels strangely unreal. It leaves Jihoon’s nerves trying to chew through his own skin.

Jihoon hopes Seungcheol might just be focusing on the road, on alert for suspicious activity. But when he chances a look across the car, what he sees causes that bit of hope to shrivel into ash. Every line of Seungcheol’s body conveys not just his anger—of which there’s clearly plenty—but also wariness and frustration. It’s not a big vehicle, yet Seungcheol has shifted himself to put as much of that small space between them as possible.

They drive around for 30 minutes before it officially becomes very awkward. Actually, awkward is the understatement of the fucking century. There needs to be new word for awkward invented immediately, so Jihoon can use it.

He knows he is absolutely to blame for the uncomfortable atmosphere, so he figures it's his responsibility to fix it.

He’s going to finish this shift with Seungcheol, then he’s going to ask for a transfer— _to another country._

It’s for the best really.

Somewhere far away from Korea where he doesn’t have to experience awkward silences with Seungcheol because there is no way he can apologise for that outburst.  

He’s terrible with apologies.

_‘I’m sorry—‘_

Oh, god no. He can’t do it.

* * *

 

By lunch time he’s got a pounding headache and the sunlight filtering through the windscreen isn’t helping one bit. Seungcheol jumps out of the car as soon as Jihoon pulls in, and doesn’t look back as he walks into a shop.

Jihoon rummages around in the glove compartment for some painkillers and finds Ibuprofen that he dry swallows, even though he’s not meant to take it on an empty stomach.

He doesn’t feel like eating. He just wants this day to be over and as quickly as possible.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before the familiar shape and stride of Seungcheol crosses into his peripheral vision. Seungcheol is standing by the drivers door, close enough for Jihoon to catch hints of his cologne.

"Hey." Seungcheol offers him a tall cup that's steaming gently, and Jihoon doesn't need detective skills to tell that it's coffee. _Good coffee._ Seungcheol brought him coffee, possibly even _apology_ -coffee.

That's weirdly thoughtful and nice of him.

Then Seungcheol puts a hand in his pocket, and dumps out a collection of sachets on Jihoon lap. Like he knows about Jihoon’s pathological need for sugar. Has he been watching Jihoon drink coffee and taking notes or something?

That should probably terrify him in some way, but Jihoon is too busy being confused. Shouldn't he be the one buying apology-coffee? Since he was the one who acted like an immature dick.

“You—bought me coffee?” Jihoon asks softly.

“Yes.”

He can feel his forehead creasing in confusion, which does fuck all for his headache. “Why?”

Seungcheol just shrugs, like he hadn't even thought about it. Like he doesn’t have to plan his nice, thoughtful gestures for the day and just does them on instinct. “That’s what partners usually do for each other. They buy each other coffee.” Seungcheol says, then hands him a white paper bag. “And donuts.”

And Jihoon is officially lost. Apology coffee and friendship donuts? All in the same day? He may need to recalibrate his understanding of the world.

Jihoon cautiously takes a bag from Seungcheol - and looks inside and wow, yes, maple glaze. His favourite—but, how did Seungcheol know?

“You bought me a donut?” Jihoon hears himself say. There's a healthy dose of 'what the fuck' going on in his voice. He’s so confused.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Jihoon is literally watching Seungcheol's face fall in slow motion, and seriously he needs to learn to just shut up sometimes. Because Seungcheol just did something nice and really, Jihoon's first instinct is to start having an existential crisis?

Jihoon doesn’t know what to do with the coffee and donut. Except eat them of course. But he’s not sure what he should say here. "Er...thanks?" Jihoon makes it sound like a question, which is probably rude. 

Seungcheol doesn’t seem to mind, he just tips his head to the side, huffs something soft and amused. “You’re welcome.”

Jihoon pops the cap, starts tearing the sugar sachets open, and dumping them in while Seungcheol walks around to the passenger side.

Seungcheol isn't actually drinking his own though, and Jihoon can't help the way he immediately gets suspicious. "Oh my god, did you  _do_  something to my coffee?"

Seungcheol's eyebrows curve down in offence. "What? No."

"No, I mean of course you didn't that would be - that would be -" Jihoon shuts his mouth and stirs his coffee, pops the lid back on and tries to look like he's too busy drinking it to form any more words. But there's only so long you can pretend you're drinking a coffee for and Seungcheol is watching his with an offended glint in his eye.

"Hey, you weren't drinking yours. You can't blame me for being suspicious." Jihoon defends and watches Seungcheol smile and close his lips around the rim of his own cup.

They sit in the cruiser and work their way through two donuts each before Jihoon can curl his tongue around the _word—sorry._

“Sorry about yelling at you earlier. This whole— _partner thing_ —takes some getting used to and I’ve never been great at sharing. I was an only child.” he clarifies on reflex, some stupid impulse to tell Seungcheol things he wouldn’t bother sharing with anyone else, only he wishes he could call back the words when Seungcheol’s ensuing laugh skates across his nerves.

“It’s okay. Only child syndrome. I understand.”

Jihoon doesn't know whether to be offended by that or not, he really doesn't. He opens his mouth to ask for clarification, but Seungcheol shoots him a cocky grin, an eyebrow rising up in a teasing manner. Like he expects Jihoon to get bright red and argue about that too.

“I have an older brother—but sometimes I wish I was an only child. I’m sure he wishes the same.” Seungcheol jokes and Jihoon manages a genuine smile at least.

He scrunches up his empty donut wrapper and wipes down his hands. He’s about to radio dispatch when Seungcheol reaches over and places a huge hand on his thigh.

_Oh—fuck me._

It’s probably meant to be a friendly, calming gesture—and completely fails on that front. Jihoon's brain comes to a messy stop at the sight and feel of Seungcheol's hand resting there, and suddenly there's no moisture in his mouth at all.  He tries not to stare at the warm hand searing a brand on his thigh as Seungcheol starts talking.

“Look. I’m going to try my best not to step on your toes. I know you like to do things a certain way and I might not always agree, but it doesn’t mean I don’t respect it.” Seungcheol says sincerely. And now _really_ isn't the time for a heart to heart, because Jihoon is only catching every other word he's so focused on Seungcheol’s damn hand still resting on his thigh.

Thankfully, Seungcheol removes it to gesture expansively and Jihoon can breathe a little easier again. “Honestly, I’m excited to be working with you cause—I really admire you Jihoon. You have unflinching ethics and you don’t cut corners to get the job done, _but you still get it done._ You’re the kind of cop I wanted to be when I joined the academy.”

Holy crap, that's - Jihoon doesn't even know what to do with that. He drinks the coffee instead, and it's still hot. He may actually be burning from the inside out, but he doesn't even care.

"Uh--thanks." He manages eventually, and he's really going to have to learn how to say that without it sounding like he's not sure.

He starts to rethink that whole transfer thing, but then they get a call from Captain Namjoon to return to the precinct.

Seungcheol has a _photoshoot_ to attend, and it sounds like a really bad joke when Namjoon says it, except he's not, he's really not.

A well known magazine is running an article on 'Busan’s Man of the Year' and Seungcheol has been shortlisted for his 'exceptional bravery'. The journalist wants a few quick words with the over-sung hero, and a few photographs of Seungcheol in his natural habitat to accompany the article.

 _‘It’s good publicity for the department Jihoon.’_ Namjoon placates.

Jihoon’s job has been reduced to a thankless celebrity chauffeur. At least, that’s what it feels like when he has to drive Seungcheol back to the precinct, then sit fuming at his desk while a leggy, blonde journalist with breasts the size of missile silos chats Seungcheol up.

Jihoon has developed a talent for watching Seungcheol work at his desk with one eye, and doing his paperwork with the other. It mostly works. Seungcheol is usually distracted to allow it.

Except today, Seungcheol keeps sparing glances at him as he answers the journalists questions. Jihoon has no idea why he keeps doing that. It’s almost as if he’s silently saying. _‘Hey, are you jealous? Look at me chatting with missile boobs? You’re jealous aren’t you? Yeah, you’re jealous.’_

Jihoon finds himself scowling at him on principle.

He has no choice but to sit there and wait it out, file some paperwork while he’s at it. But, Seungcheol keeps looking over, in an awkward, and ever so slightly creepy way until the journalist looks over too.

_Oh no._

Jihoon may have decided to steer clear of the whirlpool of Seungcheol’s fame, but Seungcheol seems to have decided to drag him under the waterline (whether Jihoon likes it) and that Jihoon has to be roped into the fame business.

So, yeah, suddenly Seungcheol’s reaching over mid interview and dragging Jihoon’s chair towards his desk.

Jihoon’s flailing around in his chair, cursing up a storm and trying not to end up on the floor. He rights himself, facing mostly the other way, and finds the journalist looking at him with amused eyebrows.

“So, you’re Officer Choi’s partner?” Blonde haired, missile breasts asks.

“Hi, yes. Hello.” Jihoon smiles wanly, shaking her hand.

“You two must be very close!” She says, and Jihoon buries the instinct to scoff with righteous indignation before it can surface.

“We are. We’re best friends.” Seungcheol says.

Jihoon tries for a _'what the fuck, no,'_ head jerk, and snaps his head to the side so quickly his neck cracks. He squints at Seungcheol, to check if he's serious and he _does_ look serious. Like he _really_ believes that. And no, that’s— _no_.

Jihoon sits back in his chair and levels a no-bullshit look Seungcheol’s way. “No—no, we’re not.”

Seungcheol cocks a brow, then there is a slip of a smile, sharp and white and dangerous. “You’re right Jihoon, we’re more like—a married couple.”

Jihoon’s eyebrows hit the roof. The journalist makes a small noise of surprise, or maybe approval, ‘Hmm!”’ and proceeds to write something down in a little notebook, flicking glances between both of them as she does it.

“Oh my god, no! That’s worse. You can’t say that!” Jihoon says, in what he hopes is a firm and controlled tone of voice, but probably isn't, it's probably squeaky and panicked and half-crazy. He's working with what he's got here.

Seungcheol gives him a slow once over, like perhaps Jihoon has his own set of missile boobs then shifts a little closer, and Jihoon's panic skips up several notches. “You know what they say Jihoon, cops are married to their jobs. They know more about their partners than they do their own spouses. We might as well be married.” His voice is pitched low in his throat, rough and dark in a way that's jarring and it makes everything a thousand times worse.

“This is our first shift together as partners!” Jihoon reminds his in a quiet hiss. “We’re not married. Don’t tell people that.”

The journalist slants an inscrutable glance at him from over the rim of her glasses, then makes some more notes. Jihoon thinks about arresting her and confiscating those notes. He’s not above police brutality.

She starts asking him questions about Seungcheol and Jihoon draws on professional habits to answer them. Jihoon’s smart with his words and manages to act like it’s the greatest thing ever that he has to partner with this ridiculous human being. He’s so professional about it, his hair hurts.

When she asks him to pick three words that best describe Seungcheol, he hesitates. Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to say something insulting.

Usually when people are giving constructive feedback, they use the age-old technique of a compliment sandwich; pointing out somebody’s flaws, but softening the blow with a compliment before and after.

Jihoon has his own technique. An _insult_ sandwich. Insult: compliment: insult.

He's good at it too, especially when it comes to describing Seungcheol.

Stupid/ _Sexy_ /Bastard

Dumb/ _Hunky_ /Asshole.

Jammy/ _Arousing_ /Douche.

He ends up answering indirectly and ever so diplomatically by saying, “How could you possibly expect me to summarise a guy like Seungcheol with three words.” in a voice devoid of emotion. 

The journalist nods in agreement and gives him a small knowing smile, Seungcheol grins at him with dimples like he thinks it’s disguising something complementary. _Idiot_.

Oblivious/ _Gorgeous_ /Idiot.

By the time they get to the end of the question and answer session torture, Jihoon feels like he’s limping toward the finish line of a marathon; he’s absolutely  _drained_ and all he wants is to lie down and drink some whiskey. (Jihoon has never run a marathon so it’s possible he’s wrong about what one generally wants to do after finishing.)

He has to dig deeper into his reserves of patience when the journalist shakes their hands, then hands them over to her photographer. Because there are _pictures_ still to be taken.

Jihoon thinks he deserves a good bonus this year for tolerating all this crap.

“We’ll just get a few quick shots and be out of your way. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Seungcheol says, getting up from his seat. Jihoon’s about to scoot back over to his desk when Seungcheol pats him on the shoulder. “C’mon cupcake, you too.”

Jihoon thinks he should probably be scowling, but he settles for rolling his eyes instead. “No. They don’t want pictures of me. _I’m not famous_. I’m just a regular—hardworking—thankless, unloved cop.” He argues.

“And we’re trying to capture Seungcheol in his everyday routine. That includes you. Your captain _said_ you’d cooperate.” The photographer practically threatens!

Jihoon is tempted to bury his face in his hands in despair, but then he’d probably be entertaining Seungcheol by reacting in such a way. He settles for a small moaning noise and a brief, indulgent closing of his eyes.

Seungcheol is clearly not even trying to hold a smile. “Come on Jihoon, it’s just a few photos.” He assures.

* * *

 

It is not just a few photos, as it turns out.

They both wait as the photographer adjusts her elaborate lighting set-up, moving around lamps and aiming and re-aiming reflectors. Then she picks up her enormous camera and asks them to pose in a million different ways.

Jihoon grits his teeth and soldiers through it. He focuses on the rapid-fire clicking of the shutter as the woman darts around the room taking shots; letting the sound wash over him, and trying to look less homicidal then he currently feels.

“Can you guys stand closer together?” She asks.

Jihoon stays where he is, forcing Seungcheol to do all the moving. Seungcheol steps closer and attempts to put his arm around Jihoon’s waist. Jihoon stares daggers at the encroaching appendage until he removes it.

“Uhm—okay, could you maybe look into each-others eyes?” The photographer directs tentatively.

“Jesus, are we taking wedding photos?” Jihoon mutters to himself. From the way Seungcheol snorts, it’s possible that was louder than he thought.

It feels incredibly awkward staring into Seungcheol’s eyes, and Jihoon finds himself scowling into them instead.

“Try not to look so uncomfortable, cupcake. Just pretend I’m someone you like.” Seungcheol whispers. Jihoon is sure he's imagining the sad smile on his lips.

“My imagination isn’t that vivid,” Jihoon whispers back, but he tries to unfurrow his brow and bring the corners of his mouth up to a neutral line. “Happy” may be out of his reach, but perhaps he can manage “completely disaffected.” 

“Try to look, like you’re sharing a joke.” The photographer prompts.

Seungcheol puts a hand on Jihoon’s arm and leans back with a huge grin on his face, as though Jihoon has just said something  _hilarious_  and a photographer just happened to be pointing a camera at them. As the photographers shutter clicks rapid-fire, Jihoon entirely fails to look as though he has just said something hilarious.

The photographer must be satisfied, though, because she claps her hands briskly. “Wonderful! Now some full-length shots! Could you please stand by that brick wall.”

Jihoon grumbles, but walks over to the wall where the photographer poses them like mannequins for several shots.

  1. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
  2. Angled toward one another.
  3. Standing back to back, leaning against one another.



It’s fucking ridiculous and makes Jihoon feel like he’s in a poster for an 80’s buddy cop movie.

 

     4. Seungcheol’s arm thrown over Jihoon’s shoulders.

 

Jihoon "accidentally" elbows him in the side.

 

     5. Jihoon with his arm _barely_ thrown over Seungcheol’s massive shoulders.

     6. Seungcheol lifting Jihoon bridal style.

 

Hold on a second, he can’t believe he let _that_ happen! Jihoon is absolutely going to complain about that at some point. 

  

    7. Seungcheol and Jihoon with their uniform sleeves rolled up, jackets slung pseudo-casually over their shoulders.

 

It feels like they're modelling for a really weird catalogue that caters to police fashion.

_8._ Both of them linking arms.

And that's where Jihoon draws the line, because, seriously? Although he suspects he probably should have drawn the line at the bridal style pose from earlier, but he might not have been thinking straight.

After what feels like another eternity of shutter-clicking, the photographer lowers her camera and peers at its screen. “Okay, I think we are just about done here.”

“Can we get a wacky one?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon rolls his eyes hard enough to make his nose flex. Ridiculous. “No.”

The photographer shrugs. “Sure, sounds like fun. I always think the relaxed poses make for the best character shots.”

Seungcheol turns to Jihoon, cajoling. “Whaddya say Jihoonie? On three let’s make a stupid face.”

The answer to that question is absolutely and definitely no. So much in the way of no. 

“No.”

“One…”

“ _No._ ”

“Two…”

“Seungcheol, no.”

“Three!”

Jihoon, exasperated to the point of not even caring anymore, gives the camera an exaggerated scowl. The shutter clicks.

The photographer bursts into a fit of giggles. “Oh officer Choi, that wasn’t very nice!” she scolds. 

“Did he actually do it? Let me see!” Seungcheol rushes over to the woman’s side and looks at the camera display. She presses a few buttons, and they both burst out laughing.

“What? What’s so funny?” Jihoon demands. Straightening out his jacket.

The photographer ignores his question cause she’s still giggling, and instead hits Seungcheol’s arm playfully with the back of her hand. “Honestly, you two are so cute together. Do you pull pranks like that on each other all the time?”

“What pranks?” Jihoon snaps. His curiosity wins out over his patience and he shoulders his way between them to look at the display. In the photo, Seungcheol is standing with his shoulders squared, looking at the camera with a very sober expression, exuding the tough, no nonsense aura of a police officer. Jihoon, meanwhile, is hunched over with his face twisted into a stupidly ridiculous grimace.

Jihoon turns and punches Seungcheol in the arm, considerably harder than the photographer had. “You’re such a dick!” 

Seungcheol doubles over with renewed laughter. “I’m sorry, Jihoonie, I didn’t think you’d do it! But look at it, you’re the most adorable thing!”

“I am not!” Jihoon can feel himself blushing, which, combined with the infantile prank Seungcheol just pulled, is giving him horrible flashbacks to school. 

“Oh, but you are!” Seungcheol beams, pulls out his cell phone and pokes at the screen, “Can you send me this picture please? I’d need it.”

“Oh my god, this is ridiculous. What are you, five?” Jihoon is pissed off, he really is, but Seungcheol's smile, his laughter and the admittedly funny picture— not that he’d ever say so out loud — has him trying to force back a grin. He can feel the heat creep up the back of his neck, and corners of his mouth tilting up, despite his valiant efforts to project irritation.

Seungcheol plants a hand on his shoulder. He’s looking at Jihoon with a strange warmth; Jihoon can feel his face flush even further. “I never knew you had dimples Jihoon. We should be calling _you_ Dimples McDimple face.” He says softly.

Jihoon turns his head away in embarrassment. “Shut up, Cheol.” He grumbles, then decides to cut his losses and heads for the locker room.

Okay, so, maybe not such a bad start to their partnership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Learning a lot about police procedure writing this, although I will have to twist things for my own nefarious gain :)  
> 2) Did I mention this fic would be a slow burn. I know.......I never slow burn. 0_0  
> 3) Hope you enjoy reading. Feedback appreciated.


	3. Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go on a stake out.

Jihoon has been chasing a suspect on foot for at the last 10 blocks.

He was making considerable progress despite his short legs and the numerous obstacles he literally had to hurl himself over. Some of which included: cars, dogs, prams, a street performer, a homeless man, a hot dog vending cart, an open manhole cover with a man climbing out of it.

He’d almost caught up with the guy, until the suspect had taken a right turn toward the beach front.

Running on sand is not as much fun as it looks when you're a kid. Sand is not conducive to running, and feet do not enjoy the unstable nature of sand, or trying to sprint across it in inappropriate footwear. Jihoon knows this, and he didn't need to grow up on a beach in Busan to find it out.

The bad guy he's chasing presumably knows this too. He seems to be betting on his own shoes over Jihoon's though. That and his lack of concern for the wellbeing of oblivious pedestrians he has no issues shoving out of his way.

_Where the hell is Seungcheol?_

Seungcheol was supposed to be ahead of him. _He's_ the one who enjoys hurling himself recklessly at bad guys on all manner of surfaces.

Jihoon manages to jump clean over a group of children building a sand castle, before being side swiped by an ice cream vendor. He’s got several ice cream cones plastered to his uniform now.

Without a moment to waste he jumps back up onto his feet and continues his pursuit, unsticking the ice cream cones as he goes.

Now is not the time for frozen treats. Maybe later, as a reward for hauling this guy off the streets.

The bad guy is up ahead, he’s getting away—but then suddenly he makes a high, startled noise of momentum turned into surprise and disappears.

"What that -?"

Jihoon eases up a little. But he's already close enough to see a flailing arm, and a figure he recognises. Then a hastily carved out hole, a foot deep, currently filled with crumpled bad guy, whimpering and holding his leg.

Seungcheol’s resting against a tree just off to the side of it, casually reading the day’s paper, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.

Jihoon shakes his head and comes to a stop.

"You built a sand trap?  _Seriously_?" Jihoon asks, when he’s within talking distance.

Seungcheol doesn't say a word, he just looks at him over the top of his paper, staring into the sun and looking for all the world like he's done something awesome.

That—was _pretty awesome._

But Jihoon’s not going to tell him that.

"How are you a safe member of society," he complains instead. "How do you function around so many ordinary people when you're obviously always thinking up ways to injure people?"

Seungcheol folds his paper and tucks it under his arm. “Don’t be jealous Jihoon, it’s beneath you.”

Frustrated, Jihoon kicks sand into the hole. “How did you even know where to build the fucking trap?”

Seungcheol throws him one of those special grins that’s always a sexy punch in the gut. "We knew where he had parked his car, where he kept his stash. Makes sense he would double back for the only evidence we had against him."

Seungcheol points at him then. "Especially when the police officer tailing him stopped to get—ice cream?” He says, reaching over to swipe a finger slowly under Jihoon’s chin where a dollop of ice-cream remains. He brings it up to his lips for an obscene lick, Jihoon tries not to watch.

“Hmm, Vanilla.” Seungcheol deduces. “A bit like your methods—eh cupcake? Maybe you should start thinking outside the box once in a while and you wouldn’t have had to chase the guy for so long.”

Jihoon wrinkles his nose at the suggestion. He knows it would be violating departmental procedure to push Seungcheol into that hole too—but damn is it tempting.

"I like thinking inside the box. The box is safe. The box keeps me grounded. The box stops me from getting sued by every criminal I arrest for abuse of authority. Maybe **_you_** need to start thinking inside the box!" he says, while he pulls his handcuffs out of his back pocket.

Seungcheol's grinning like an idiot, when he hauls the groaning suspects out of the pit.

* * *

 

They’ve been partners for little over two months and at first, Jihoon treated Seungcheol like an atomic bomb about to go off. Like letting him take control of any situation would set off something dark and ugly.

But, as the weeks went by, they settled into a strange competitive team and Jihoon, much to his dismay, seems to be adjusting to Seungcheol’s presence.

If he had a gun to his head, he might even admit that it’s almost  _nice_  — Jihoon tries not to gag at the word — having someone on patrol with him. It feels sort of like having back-up; like, if he were in the middle of writing out a ticket, and his pen ran out of ink (which has only happened once and never again; he brings extra pens now) he could take Seungcheol’s pen. That’s why it’s nice. 

He appreciates that things could be worse, he could be stuck partnering up with Vernon who’s locked himself out of his patrol car five times in the last month and even cuffed himself by accident. Seungcheol might not be professional, or disciplined or—heck—law abiding sometimes, but he’s incompetently competent.

Is that a thing? Well—it has to be cause that’s the only way Jihoon can sum him up. Incompetently competent.

Oh—and he’s nice to look at.

The Busan journal printed their story about Seungcheol for the ‘Busan Man of the Year’ award and Captain Namjoon was _so_ proud, he had the main photo of the two of them standing back to back, blown up to needless proportions.

It’s currently plastered on the enormous screen mounted on the building outside the station, giant Seungcheol and _slightly_ less giant Jihoon, looking down on the people of Busan walking along the street.

Jihoon can see the back of the billboard from the stations main office and occasionally there will be a gaggle of pedestrians outside taking photographs.

Jihoon has no idea why he’s up on the billboard too; the article is about _Seungcheol_ for fucks sake and it only serves to make him look _more_ like a side kick.

The way they’re posing back to back, stern and composed, looks like it’s advertising some 80’s buddy cop movie.

One where Movie Jihoon would be the no-nonsense veteran cop, and Movie Seungcheol would be the untested rookie who doesn’t play by the rules and doesn’t take things too seriously. But instead of Movie Jihoon learning a valuable lesson about letting go of the past and loosening up, Movie Seungcheol would get shot in the third act due to his own carelessness, and with his last dying breath he would clutch weakly at Movie Jihoon’s police badge and stammer, _“I should have listened to you when you told me to take this seriously. Now I am dying—through no fault of yours. Tell my mother I—bleh.”_

And then he’d die in Movie Jihoon’s arms and Movie Jihoon would look up into the falling rain and scream _“NOOOOOO!”_

And then Movie Jihoon would have sex with, like, the seriously attractive District Attorney he’s been crushing on for years but has been too shy to approach until the end.

**Cue credits.**

That’s a good movie. They should make that movie. Jihoon would _watch_ that movie.

Privately thought, Jihoon will admit to liking that photograph.

Every time he sees it, Jihoon feels the fluttering in his stomach get a little bit wilder. He has to admit it looks good; the photographer has talent with the lens, and he and Seungcheol make an attractive couple…… **Pair.** **Twosome.** **Duo.**

**Group of two men with no social connection to one another!**

* * *

 

The case notes and lab results spread across the table make no more sense to Jihoon than they did two days ago. The body homicide are currently investigating makes perfect sense, twenty seven year old male, found floating face down in the river; time of death, early morning.

The death was initially ruled as an accident, but then John Doe’s prints were put through the system and they discovered he had ties with a drug trafficking ring. Now it has been ruled a homicide.

The photos Jihoon has been studying are pictures of the crime scene from different angles; a length of rope tied under a bridge, prints leading away from the crime scene back to the footpath and several tire tracks.

There is also a menthol cigarette butt in an evidence bag somewhere, which the lab are analysing for traces of DNA, but it doesn’t matter. No matter how many times Jihoon looks at the evidence, it doesn’t make any sense.

Five cups of horrendous, lukewarm coffee have dulled his brain into a sort of determined paste of frustration and tiredness. He’s irritated he can’t puzzle this out. There’s an answer hiding in the organised chaos on his desk, all he had to do is think hard enough to find it.

Captain Namjoon has already told them to pass the case on to homicide because, _technically_ , it’s their area. But if Jihoon doesn't find some ground between the two he's going to go slowly mad - or quickly mad.

He lays a hand on the photos, and shuffles them all back together. Then rubs at his eyes in frustration. He has a headache, and there isn't enough coffee in the world for this.

A hip comes to rest on the edge of Jihoon’s desk, and a heavy arm around his shoulders drags him out of his self-depreciation. It’s _Seungcheol_ , leaning over his desk, and Jihoon by default— _again_.

Jihoon wants to lecture him about working on his personal space issues, or at least beg him to wear looser clothing.

“Hey cupcake. Me and a few of the guys are grabbing a beer after work, why don’t you—“

“No.” Jihoon says, before he even really knows what Seungcheol's asking. But he can guess. “As you can see I’m working on something.”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “On a case that’s no longer ours.” Jihoon gets a finger pointed at him then. “Didn’t Cappy order us to hand that over to Homicide?”

Jihoon narrows his gaze in annoyance. “I’m well aware of what _The Captain_ said, I’m just making sure my notes are coherent before I hand them over.” He says through gritted teeth.

Seungcheol eyes them with clear scepticism and reaches over to tug a photograph out of Jihoon’s hand. “What about this case is interesting you so much?”

Jihoon snatches the photograph back. “Nothing. Just—can you just go away.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “You could loosen up a little Jihoon. Come get a drink with us, I think you could use social interaction that isn’t related to work.” He says. There’s a condescending smile in his voice—Jihoon doesn’t have to look at him to know it’s there.

He clenches his jaw and returns to his notes without another word. Seungcheol hovers over him for a minute before there's a soft, almost disappointed, sigh.

It’s ridiculously easy for Seungcheol to turn him on— _and_ piss him off—without even realizing.  

They’ve never had a full out brawl, but their interactions have become a sadly predictable song and dance.

Seungcheol will needle him for being too rigid. Jihoon will remind him that a police officer’s role requires exacting diligence. Seungcheol will then call him an unoriginal drudge and scorn his tactics. Jihoon will then be forced to point out the many ways in which Seungcheol own tactics have led to death threats, compensation claims and collateral damage. At which point, Seungcheol will then look at him with fond amusement and, inexplicably, pity—which unescapably makes Jihoon want to push Seungcheol to his knees and demonstrate just what he can do with that fucking pity.

Not that he ever does or will.

Rinse and repeat over the course of several weeks and various cases. It's hardly amicable, but it's how they are. It’s a test of willpower, just like everything else about this goddamn job. Jihoon accepts that.

Captain Namjoon on the other hand, doesn’t accept that.

Almost every other week he’s hauling them into his office for little conciliatory group chats, like he’s the department’s unofficial marriage counsellor.

He’s concerned that they’re treating this partnership as less of a team effort and more of an opportunity to compete. Which is _stupid_ , but undeniably true.

So what if they’re working against each other but in pursuit of the same goal? At least they’re getting the job done, _right_?

“You know—“ Captain Namjoon begins when they’re both seated in his office. “I had a partner once. Kim Seokjin. We didn’t get along at first either, but when you’ve got each-others back in a high stress situation, things do change.”

“So your solution is to put our tentative partnership in a high stress situation? Awesome. By all mean, by our guest.” Jihoon says dryly.

Namjoon gives him a considering look. “I’d love to—but there aren’t any at the moment. Apart from a few petty criminals, I’m happy to say Busan’s pretty safe from organised crime. It’s like the criminals are afraid to be criminals.” He laughs to himself. “I had lunch with the chief of police last week and he said it was all thanks to you Seungcheol. You and your heroic actions have influenced the other officers, straightened out the populace, created a kind of ripple effect.”

Jihoon's had it up to here with that bullshit, he slams a hand down on the armrest in frustration. “Are you serious! Crime doesn’t _disappear_. It might appear quiet _now_ , but they’re probably just gearing up to do something else.”

He leans forward in his seat, jerking his head towards Seungcheol, “Or maybe they’re using this clown’s spectacle as an opportunity to plan something bigger when everyone starts feeling safe.” He adds. And ok, he could probably have sounded less bitter about that. But only just.

Seungcheol doesn’t move to defend himself, he just stares at him implacably. 

Namjoon gives him a pitying look which he can't help but bristle at. “I think what you guys need is a good old fashioned stakeout!” He gestures pointedly between them. “In my experience, nothing builds a bond like two guys cramped in the backseat of a hot car together for hours on end.” He adds, with a disturbingly wistful look on his face.

Which is pretty much the moment that Jihoon realises Namjoon's probably insane.

Thankfully, Seungcheol seems to echo that opinion because they both turn to look at each other at the exact same time, sharing a silent ‘What the fuck?”

* * *

 

According to their schedule, they’re tailing a suspect for three out of the next five days. A mildly influential businessman with some links to organised crime and drug trafficking. It’s _somehow_ linked to their case, although Jihoon suspects Captain Namjoon is using any and _all_ excuses to get them working together more closely.

They’re sitting in the backseat of an unmarked vehicle, an inconspicuous distance away from the targets home. Seungcheol’s taking notes; Jihoon’s got the binoculars, and not much is happening.

 _This man is a freakin hermit,_  Jihoon thinks to himself as he’s five hours into the stakeout.

Cars are not actually that comfortable, especially when you have very little to focus on to distract from the lack of padding in the seats. Jihoon’s ass is well on its way to numb and tingling from sitting for so long. Seungcheol’s ass is— _probably_ not.

Seungcheol’s ass has its _own_ cushioning. _Plump_ and _firm_ cushioning.

He really shouldn’t be thinking about Seungcheol’s ass when he’s sharing a confined space with the man.

“Do you see anything?” Seungcheol asks.

“Yes— _lots of things_. I see fields of green. Red roses too. I see them bloom—for me and you. And I think to myself. Why is Seungcheol so annoying?”

Seungcheol sighs heavily. “I meant, do you see the perp?”

Jihoon pulls away from the lens to look at Seungcheol. “No. Otherwise I would have said something.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “ _Would you have?_ I have a feeling like you would have just kept it to yourself and filled out all the paperwork later without my notes.” He says, giving Jihoon a half amused and half exasperated look.

“I use your notes. I just— _add_ to them on occasion.” Jihoon waves him off, even though there's a guilty part of him that knows he's done exactly that, more than once.

“You re-write all the case notes I submit and leave notes for improvement in the margins. Just admit you think I’m a shitty cop.” Seungcheol says. It's a grumble more than genuine irritation.

“I don’t think you’re a shitty cop.” Jihoon sighs. Because he doesn't think that, even though, yeah, he knows that's what it probably looks like sometimes...most of the time, ok, all of the time.

“Then why do you always re-write my case notes?” Seungcheol argues.

Jihoon purses his lips in thought. “It’s just that—you have awful handwriting.” He offers eventually.

Seungcheol makes a rude noise of disbelief. “No, I don’t.”

Jihoon nods. “You write like a child. _A left-handed_ child—riding a rollercoaster. How can anyone be expected to rely on your notes with that kind of illegible short-hand? And so what if I add my own notes or make alterations? It’s only because my perspective is different (and better) and I like being thorough.”

Seungcheol makes a quiet noise, considering. “Fine. Let’s switch. Give me the binoculars and you can make notes.”

Jihoon gives him a look that perfectly conveys exactly what the likelihood of that would be. “ _No,_ —as you can plainly see, these are _my_ binoculars.” Jihoon says, pointing to the label clearly printed ‘Property of Lee Jihoon’.

Seungcheol offers him that suspicious squint that he's becoming strangely familiar with. “Did you get those labels specially made or something? You really need to stop sticking them on everything.”

Jihoon swivels his head around to eyeball him. “Maybe I will when you stop stealing my lunch!” He snaps.

Seungcheol throws his hands up. “I stole ONE French fry, ONE time and you’re _never_ going to let it go!”

“It was **my** French fry. You had no right! It was daylight robbery!” Jihoon spits.

Seungcheol gapes at him. “I was the one who _bought_ you the French fry’s!”

“It’s still stealing! Stealing is stealing, no matter what way you slice it!” Jihoon reminds him again, and the more he says that the tighter that note of tension in his voice gets. 

“Whatever. You didn’t have to pull your gun on me.” Seungcheol points out helpfully.

Which is, yeah, that's probably a good point. Not that Jihoon will ever admit to that.

“Didn’t I? I think I did Seung-“ Jihoon stops talking right about then, because movement catches his eye from outside the targets house. “Hold up—he’s exiting the house.” Jihoon whispers, zooming in with lens and firing the shutter capture.

“What’s he doing? Talk to me.” Seungcheol whispers.

“He’s walking down the steps.” Jihoon says.

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s opening his mailbox.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s checking his mail.”

“Uh-huh”

“Two letters and a parcel.”

“Uh-Huh.”

“He’s picking his nose.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s climbing back up the steps.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he’s going back into the house and closing the door.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s at the living room window.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he’s drawing the blinds.” Jihoon finishes, lowering the binoculars and slumping back into his seat.

He turns his head to face Seungcheol. “Did you get all that?” He asks, but Seungcheol’s sitting with a completely blank note-pad balanced on his knee and a completely blank look on his face.

“I can’t help but notice you have failed to take down those details. Why aren’t you taking notes?” Jihoon asks, amazing himself with the level of patience he's demonstrating.

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at him, and Jihoon glares back, rather than clarify or re-word the question.

Seungcheol glances down at his empty note-pad. “Well—nothing happened.” He eventually says with a shrug.

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?” Jihoon asks in a shocked voice.

Seungcheol shrugs. “Nothing dodgy happened. The guy just checked his mail—he didn’t rob a bank or shoot anyone did he? What did you want me to do—use my fucking imagination and write a short story?”

Jihoon sighs through his nose, he flings the binoculars down in the seat between them and snatches the note-pad from Seungcheol.  

He can see now that the pad isn’t completely empty. There is an opening entry about the location they’re watching and a doodle of an alligator wearing a top hat. He's fairly certain that neither have them have witnessed an alligator in a top hat leave the suspects house.

“What did I tell you about doodling in the evidence log?” He snaps.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes and makes a move to take the pad back. Jihoon slaps his hand away.

“This is how you take stake out notes you dimwit.” He berates, disarming Seungcheol of the pen and starting his own entry.

“ **15:03** —No sign of suspect. Suspect still on sight, at address. **15:45** —Suspect leaves house, wearing black jogging bottoms and a white T-Shirt to check mail. **15:47** –suspect returns inside and draws the blinds. **Additional observations—** Suspect received approx. two letters and a parcel. _Suspicious activity sighted_.” He finishes speaking out loud, underlining the last sentence.

Seungcheol looks baffled. “Getting mail? How is _that_ suspicious activity?!

Jihoon throws his hands up in defeat. “He got a parcel! He went inside and drew the blinds after. That’s suspicious. Why all the secrecy? Hmm? What does he not want us to see?”

Seungcheol makes a dubious noise in his throat. “It’s probably a DVD and he’s watching a fucking Movie. Maybe it’s porn and he wants to jerk off!”

Jihoon rubs the space between his eyes and sighs, loudly. “Seriously? And you accuse **me** of not thinking outside the box.”

Seungcheol pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright—since you’re not satisfied with my observations—give me the binoculars.”

When Jihoon makes no move to relinquish the binoculars, Seungcheol’s frustration shades into anger. “So, what? Now you’re using the binoculars and taking the notes too?”

“Well, you’ve just proven you can’t handle that responsibility.” Jihoon says, in his driest voice.

Seungcheol gives him a conflicted expression, caught somewhere between hurt and perplexed. But he doesn’t say another word.

So many of their conversation end like this, in quiet frustration. Words that feel as though they've been sparring for years instead of a matter of months, arguments tracked over heavily worn ground. Ideally he and Seungcheol should fit together almost as easy as breathing, but there are certain gaps Jihoon can't figure out how to cross, areas he’s reluctant to compromise.

“Make yourself useful—go get us lunch.” Jihoon says dismissively.

He doesn't miss the way Seungcheol's eyes go angry-tight. The way he slams the car door, a little harder than necessary.

Jihoon's fairly sure this is what it feels like to be an asshole.

* * *

 

Jihoon is working himself up to an apology, trying to get the words right in his head.

_‘Listen Seungcheol, I’m sorry. Would you like to touch my binoculars?’_

No, that doesn’t sound right at all.

He might not have to apologise after all because Seungcheol comes strolling back from the Deli with a big, stupid grin plastered on his face. He slides into the passenger seat and hands Jihoon a sandwich wrapped in white paper.

The parcel is heavy and warm, and the paper is translucent in places where grease has begun to soak through. “Hmm—What fillings did you get?” Jihoon asks, beginning to unwrap the sandwich one handed.

“I got you a foot-long meatball marinara, with spicy cheese, red onions, jalapenos, olives, pickles and southwest sauce.” Seungcheol recites.

Jihoon can't help the way his eyebrows jerk upwards. He wonders how Seungcheol knows his sandwich order exactly how he likes it.

Nobody ever gets his order right, but Seungcheol just did, right down to the sauce.

Which makes no sense at all, even for Seungcheol, who sometimes takes not making sense as some sort of police duty.

Jihoon shrugs it off. The sandwich is impressively laden and Jihoon gets his mouth around as much of it as he can and takes a bite.

“Oh my  _god_ , that's good. I love foot-long meatballs.” he says, once he’s managed to chew and swallow.

Seungcheol says something through his mouth full of food that is presumably an agreement. Or he might be choking. His face is very red.

“I got you an orange juice too, they were out of apple.” Seungcheol says, handing him over a bottle.

Jihoon accepts the bottle with a courteous nod, Seungcheol’s kindly opened it for him too. He sets the binoculars to one side so he can drink his juice; it’s a little bitter but it’s hot out and the drink really hits the spot.

Stuffing their faces takes precedence over reconnaissance for a while; they sit side by side, sipping their drinks and occasionally making sounds of enjoyment muffled by partially-chewed sandwich. When Jihoon reaches the end of his, he lets out a satisfied sigh and rubs his stomach appreciatively. 

He finishes off his orange juice and quickly reclaims the binoculars before Seungcheol can get any bright ideas about taking them.

Seungcheol doesn’t voice protest. In fact, he has a curious or possible mischievous look on his face. Which Jihoon isn't entirely sure he wants to ask about. Just in case it involves something horribly stupid. He's always thought that Seungcheol's flights of fancy might be better off remaining in his head for the good of everyone.

They continue their observation for a few minutes in relative silence, and then Jihoon yawns. Then he yawns again.

He shakes his head when his eye lids start getting heavy, the car is overly warm and he blinks a few times when he gets double vision staring through the lens. He rolls down the window to let some fresh air in and tells himself he couldn’t possibly be getting sleepy; he’s had the recommended 8 hours of sleep last night and several cups of cheap coffee since.

A large, warm hand settles on his nape and he lolls his head sluggishly to the side to look at a smiling Seungcheol.

“How you feeling cupcake?” Seungcheol says, the soft purr of his accent wraps around every word.

Jihoon blinks slowly at the question, which only serves to make him sleepier. “I feel kinda funny.” He mumbles.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol says, thumb rubbing enticing little circles against Jihoon’s neck.

“Yeah—I’m kinda— _sweepy_.” Jihoon says. It takes a considerable amount of effort to form the words and not sound like he’s talking in slow motion. 

“Sweepy?” Seungcheol questions with a grin.

Jihoon giggles and nods slowly. His visions blurs and he drops the binoculars on his lap to scrub his fists over his eyes.

“Awww—do you want to have a little nap cupcake?” Seungcheol says. His grin is lazy and fond and Jihoon can't help but return it.

 _Uhm—no. What the fuck?—_ Jihoon’s higher brain functions protest.  

“Yesh—sweepy.” Jihoon mutters sleepily instead, because his brain and his mouth are, apparently, no longer on speaking terms. Even less so than usual anyway.

Seungcheol pats his shoulder and Jihoon finds himself tilting sideways onto Seungcheol, head slumping against said shoulder. He knows he’s on the clock, he knows how ridiculous he’s behaving but he can't seem to keep his eyes open

Seungcheol’s shoulder is nice and comfortable and Seungcheol’s fingers play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck and that isn’t so awful either, once he crushes the little voice in the back of his mind screaming _‘What the fuck are you doing?’_ and nuzzles into Seungcheol’s chest.

* * *

 

Seungcheol can’t quite remember how he’d gotten it in his head, but at some point early in his life he’d decided he was going to be cop and go after bad guys—basically every young boy’s stereotypical heroic dream.

He joined the Daegu police academy straight out of high school, and graduated in the bottom 50% of his class. His father, an ex-cop with a legendary reputation was not the least bit pleased, but Seungcheol hadn’t really been trying. He only managed to land a position with the Daegu PD because of his father’s contacts and when he was made sergeant just before his twenty-fourth birthday, it was only after a series of corruption allegations had pushed some older cops into retirement.

A year later, Seungcheol moved to Busan and not long after, he foiled a bank robbery in progress, rescued a group of hostages and walked out of a shootout with the captors unscathed.

Everyone called him a hero.

Seungcheol knew he was just the luckiest motherfucker on the planet.

Regardless, the distinction got his old man off his case and that’s always a win.

His career in the Busan PD was looking bright, and when Captain Namjoon assigned him Lee Jihoon as his partner, Seungcheol was already a starry-eyed fan.

Seungcheol had secretly watched Jihoon for months after he’d arrived, followed his cases and envied his smarts; respected his dedication to the badge and admired how his perky little ass filled out his uniform slacks.

His first week on the job he was allocated a desk right next to Jihoon’s and spent a large portion of his time checking the guy out. Then one day, Jihoon had looked up with an adorable scowl on his face, caught him staring and said, “What the fuck are you looking at?” and Seungcheol fell a little bit in love.

Shame it doesn’t flow both ways.

Jihoon is especially antagonistic towards him, making a point of questioning his tactics in front of anyone who will listen and slapping back every gesture of companionship Seungcheol tries to make.

It makes sense to Seungcheol that a hardworking guy like Jihoon would hate him. It really does. From what he knows about Jihoon, the guy has had to work hard for everything he’s earned, whereas Seungcheol has been afforded every opportunity without trying.

Except now, he is trying. He’s pushing himself really damn hard to impress Jihoon, to prove himself a worthy partner.

Crushing sleeping pills in his orange juice might _not_ be the best way to endear Jihoon to him—but Jihoon is really fucking stubborn sometimes and Seungcheol just wanted his turn on the binoculars.

Long stake outs without distraction are impossibly tedious. Seungcheol would have afforded this one the same description if not for one rather important fact: Jihoon is currently sleeping on his shoulder.

The binoculars Jihoon had been holding have slid down, curved half over his leg and half on the seat. Threatening to tumble to the floor as he nuzzles into Seungcheol’s chest.

Jihoon is frowning in his sleep, like he knows he's being watched, or, like he's having nightmares about Seungcheol doodling on his case notes again. Though Seungcheol always thinks he protests about that far too much. Seungcheol thinks Jihoon secretly _enjoys_ his doodles. He huffs and pouts and clenches his fists when Seungcheol draws occasionally pornographic pictures in the margins of his notes, but Seungcheol is sure they entertain him. They serve as an amusing illustrative guide to the case they’re working on, helping break up all the reports Jihoon fills with a thousand tiny details.

Jihoon's all about the details.

A breeze blows through the crack in the window and Jihoon shudders and makes a noise, soft, protesting. Seungcheol pets a thumb over his bottom lip and shushes him. “There, there—it’s okay.” He coos.

Seungcheol doesn’t have a blanket to wrap around him, but he does have body heat. He tips, just a fraction, back into the seat and loops an arm around Jihoon’s waist. The press of hair against the side of his neck, and the warm breath curling down into his shirt is perhaps more of a distraction than he intended but he suspects the only alternative is to wake Jihoon.

Which he's _never_ going to do because this is awesome. It’s the closest he can get without having a sexual harassment lawsuit slapped in his face.

Seungcheol _has_ tried to bond with Jihoon without the use of sedatives. Or, yes, okay—if one is being honest, he’s tried to flirt with Jihoon.

He’s always forking out for expensive coffee when they’re out on patrol, the station brew is awful and only the best blend will do for his little cupcake. The coffee does seem to be warming Jihoon up, but Seungcheol pulls out all the tricks from his repertoire—standing closer than necessary, complimenting Jihoon as much as possible, even showing off his bad-ass cop skills in a cute competitive way. He makes plenty of eye contact when they’re going over a case together, making sure there’s plenty of ‘accidental’ hand touching. But everything seems to fly straight over Jihoon’s head.

Seungcheol has _never_ had to work so hard to make somebody like him before.

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, then slowly and very carefully steals the binoculars, which have now slipped entirely onto the seat.

He uses the non-consensual bonding time to observe the man they’re supposed to be tailing through the binoculars, and makes a series of detailed and neat notes—the way Jihoon likes them.

The next time Seungcheol’s eyes slide sideways he discovers that Jihoon's hair has fallen to one side. There's a strand of blonde hair across his closed eye that's almost shamelessly untidy. That slice of disorder is so very fetching, so unlike Jihoon.

Seungcheol is tempted, impossibly tempted, to ruffle his hair further—leave it sticking out at odd angles and maybe put a little bow in it, but he suspects that Jihoon would actually castrate him for that.

He very gently lifts a hand and tucks the lock of hair behind Jihoon’s ear and Jihoon mumbles in his sleep. Seungcheol watches him settle again, but his lips continue to move, parting as if he’s whispering something in his slumber.

Seungcheol tilts his head closer, trying to listen to what Jihoon’s is murmuring. He picks up a few stray syllables and is amused, endeared and not surprised to hear Jihoon reciting the Miranda rights in his sleep.

_Seriously, this guy……_

* * *

 

It's some strange nebulous number of hours later that Jihoon finds himself awake with a light headache, a dry mouth, and the lingering haze of dizziness across his vision. He blinks at the empty seat in front of him for a second before he decides it's darker outside than it should be.

That isn’t the interesting bit though – the interesting bit is that Jihoon had slipped sideways in his seat, falling squarely against Seungcheol, with his head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest. Seungcheol has an arm wrapped around his back, cradling him in place. The two are pressed neatly together from knee to shoulder like puzzle pieces.

It takes him a moment to realize that Seungcheol is looking down at him with hooded eyes. They're too close, a flare of heat touches his cheek when Seungcheol breathes there, when he tips his head, and smiles down at Jihoon smushed against his shoulder.

Jihoon jolts his head backwards in surprise, as a small hint of colour shooting across the bridge of his nose.

“Hey sleepy head. Have a good nap?” Seungcheol says, in what sounds like it is means to be a whisper, but is more stage whisper than anything.

Jihoon blinks in bafflement and checks his wrist-watch and realises he's lost several hours. It occurs to him that Seungcheol has probably been awake the entire time, has continued working, doing things around him, and Jihoon thinks he should probably be ashamed of his lack of stake-out instincts, or cop instincts.

It takes him a long time to slide away from Seungcheol, back to his side of the car.

Seungcheol huffs laughter and pulls his arm back from around his waist.

Jihoon scrubs a hand over his face, trying to blink away his confusion. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I don’t normally—I never do that.”

“Guess you must have been tired—looking through those binoculars all day.” Seungcheol remarks, lifting the long distance camera and snapping a few shots of the house.

Jihoon blinks and stares distractedly around the car. When he finally looks at Seungcheol again he notices that Seungcheol is in possession of the binoculars and the notepad, and has made pages upon pages of detailed observations in uncharacteristically neat handwriting.

Jihoon shakes his head to clear it. He's managing tired right now, relieved, slightly confused, and an edge of thirsty.

Seungcheol seems to be some kind of mind reader because he leaves the car then for a stint, and comes back with a steaming cup of coffee.

Jihoon doesn't even bother to take it from him, he just wraps his hands around Seungcheol's, and pulls the whole thing up to his mouth. He knows as soon as he inhales that it's going to shake his sense of self. He can smell it’s the good stuff—the stuff Seungcheol splashes out on for when he’s trying to butter him up.

It's still hot, but not too hot, and he takes a mouthful, feels the low burn of it roll around in his mouth, swallows. It's impossible to form any sort of opinion because he can feel his entire nervous system giving a slow stretch, and he knows he's making some sort of appreciative noise that he's only previously made while naked.

There’s a quiet sound of amusement from Seungcheol and Jihoon realises he's still holding on to the cup and Seungcheol’s hand, like he's afraid it'll be taken away.

He forces himself to unwind his hand. "Sorry." He mumbles, accepting the cup from Seungcheol and swallowing another mouthful.

It’s good, helping wash away the bitter aftertaste of the orange juice still lingering in his mouth….

_Wait a second._

Jihoon looks at the cup of coffee, then at Seungcheol, who smiles at him. “What?”

Jihoon squints at him.

Then he squints some more.

"Your eyes aren't even open anymore," Seungcheol points out.

“You—you drugged my orange juice.” Jihoon says flatly, disbelievingly.

He's not expecting the smile he gets at that. He should have known better. Orange Juice should be harmless. Orange Juice should not contain surprise pharmaceuticals that make him fall asleep on his partner during a stake-out. Really there should be no orange juice surprises, at all.

“You son of a bitch! You drugged my orange juice to get the binoculars!” Jihoon accuses angrily.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Jihoon. You just fell asleep suddenly." Seungcheol drawls lazily. "Maybe it’s because the car was warm—or maybe because you had just eaten a big sandwich. Or maybe both.” He offers with a shrug, but he still hasn't dropped that smile for a second.

“You—drugged—my—juice.” Jihoon repeats, a hint of betrayal colouring his tone.

Seungcheol is quiet for long enough that Jihoon's half sure he's working towards something important. “Prove it.” he says carefully.

Jihoon tenses. “I will fucking prove it. I’ll get a tox screen and find out what you drugged me with. I’ll find the empty bottle and have it tested, I’ll drag your ass to-“ Jihoon stops ranting when Seungcheol snaps his head to the side and waves him quiet with considerable enthusiasm.

There's a tightening, a tension in Seungcheol's body language. Jihoon wouldn't have noticed it if he wasn't looking. Seungcheol’s eyes go wide a second before he launches himself across the seat at Jihoon, shoving him down into the foot-well and shielding him with his frame.

“What the fuck!” Jihoon yells before the sound of a car pulling up and gunfire drowns his protests out.

Jihoon turns his face to avoid taking broken glass to the face, fighting off a wave of hysteria. Seungcheol is braced above him with a furious scowl carved into his face; pinning Jihoon down and shielding him as the car is riddled with bullets.

“Fuck! Fuck!” Jihoon hisses as bight clangs of bullets ricocheting off the car frame spur him to curl his fists into Seungcheol’s shirt and hold on for dear life.

The revving on an engine, and the screeching of tires at the end of the block signals the departure of the vehicle.

Glass and smoke rains down on them in tiny motes as everything goes quiet. For a moment, neither of them moves and the silence is deafening.

“Are you okay cupcake?” Seungcheol says finally, bracing an elbow on the seat and brushing glass off Jihoon’s arms and chest.

“Yeah.” Jihoon says breathlessly.

Jihoon's neck is sore, back uncomfortable where it's pressed into the foot-well, where Seungcheol has been covering him protectively.

He looks up, to ask Seungcheol to move and stops--

Seungcheol's so fucking close. He’s hovering inches away and staring at Jihoon’s mouth.

He's not even hiding the fact, it's blatant as all hell, and there's no way Jihoon should be feeling that under his skin, feeling it low in his belly and lower still where it has no business. It's no better when Seungcheol eventually lifts his eyes.

Jihoon's seen a lot of Seungcheol's expressions, but he's never seen him wear this one. He's never seen Seungcheol look like he  _wants_.

“I think—I think we’re clear.” Jihoon whispers slowly.

Seungcheol exhales, slow and easy, and drags himself up to sit back in the back seat, now covered with broken glass and bullet shells.

Jihoon manages to wriggle out from the foot-well but stays crouched low. “Jesus, what the fuck. We got burnt.”

Seungcheol spares him a side glance. “Guess you were right, that guy was suspicious.”

 

* * *

 

They notify the station of the drive by shooting, then secure the perimeter as they wait for back up and crime scene to arrive.

Jihoon’s leaning against a wall at the end of the block, still deciding exactly how angry he feels like being, how angry he has a right to feel when Seungcheol comes to stand next to him.

“I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have drugged you.” Seungcheol's tells him, eyes dropping, just briefly, before rising to meet his own again, and his fingers dig, just a fraction into the palm of his hand. “You can report me if you want to. I won’t deny it.”

“I should! I should write you up. That was the stupidest—most thoughtless thing you've ever done. How are you even a cop?” Jihoon says, his words holding little actual bite to them.

Seungcheol’s face stiffens and he turns his head away, something akin to panic flitting across his face. “I’m sorry.”

Jihoon covers his face with both hands and groans. “That was dangerous Seungcheol. What if I was still asleep when that car shot at us? I was defenceless.” Jihoon tells him, voice hard, honest.

“Jihoon,” Seungcheol says quietly, all weight and affection. When Jihoon looks up again he is shocked into stillness as Seungcheol reaches to brush a thumb over his cheek. It's not fireworks, but is it a tingle that transforms into a buzz of excitement, right underneath his skin. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

The words are warm and sincere, and they make Jihoon swallow with difficulty. It turns this quiet, strange new dynamic they have into something quieter and stranger still.

“But what if something happened to you? What if _you_ needed back up?” Jihoon deflects, anything to drain the moment of heat.

Seungcheol’s frown seems not to know the answer to that.

“I couldn’t very well back you up while I was drooling in my sleep, now could I?” Jihoon snaps. All nervous energy in place of anger and none too happy about it either.

“You weren’t drooling. You’re a soft little angel when you sleep—it was adorable.” Seungcheol argues, looks far too pleased by the memory.

He slips a hand into his back pocket and pulls out his cell phone. “I even took a picture.” He grins, which quickly slips into a wince as Jihoon directs a sharp look at him. “Which I will be deleting— _right this minute_.” He mumbles, stuffing his phone back into his pocket and rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re right. It was stupid. I have no excuse.”

Jihoon sighs and slumps back against the well. Whatever he'd been about to say seems irritatingly far away, if he's honest with himself. He sighs through his nose and tries to gather something in the way of professional annoyance.

But he's damned if he can come up with anything right now.

“Just don’t do it again, understood?” Jihoon says briskly.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Understood.”

“Fine.” Jihoon clears his throat and tentatively holds out his hand.

Seungcheol looks at Jihoon’s outstretched hand, then his gaze trails back up to meet Jihoon’s. He reaches out to slide his palm against Jihoon’s, his fingers wrapping tightly around the back of Jihoon’s hand, fingers interlocking. His skin is warm, smooth, and Jihoon is knocked breathless for a split second as memories of the lines and angles of Seungcheol’s body covering his in the back seat flash unbidden through his mind.

Jihoon was going for more of a handshake there—a gesture of truce. But now they’re just holding hands in the street.

“Uhmm—what are you doing?” Jihoon says, nodding towards their interlaced fingers.

“Holding your hand?” Seungcheol says, leaning a little closer, their hands still clasped together. “What are you doing?”

“I _was_ trying for a handshake!” Jihoon snips before he can stop himself.

“Oh—right—yeah—sorry.” Seungcheol replies, finally letting go and having the decency to look sheepish.

They're both relieved when backup arrives not a moment later. One awkward, sexually explosive moment at a time please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Seungcheol is very devious XD  
> 2) I can imagine Jihoon would be one of those guys who puts labels all over his lunch using a label maker. I can imagine him putting labels on all his personal possessions at work XD I equally imagine Seungcheol peeling the labels off and using Jihoon's stuff anyway. If he steals his underwear...why would he stop there!  
> 3)Jihoon is so precious and soft when he's asleep ^_^  
> [Sweepy Jihoon](https://twitter.com/havoktreeftw/status/889129626987003905)  
> 4) Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoy the chapter. Feedback always appreciated :)


	4. Aiding and abetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seungcheol and Jihoon have to work together to get what they want.  
> As usual, I suck at summaries.

Their stake out was a bust. And after back-up and crime scene arrived at the area, it quickly became apparent _why_.

The marks apartment was empty, expertly cleaned without a shred of incriminating evidence in sight. But sitting open on the coffee table was an issue of last months _‘Busan Tribune’_ , and there on the front cover—Seungcheol’s infuriating grinning face.

Of course, the mark looked out his window and recognised the most popular cop in Busan staking his apartment out.

Of course, he cut his losses and ran.

And now they’ve lost him and blown their opportunity to link him with drug case.

Jihoon hates being right when it comes to these things, and he tells his captain as much when they report to the station the next day.

Namjoon rolls his eyes. “What, you want to say ‘I told you so’ to my face?”

“With all due respect sir, I don’t need to say it, you know it’s true. Seungcheol is too well known for stake out detail. He can’t blend in with the scenery when his face has been all over TV and every magazine stand. I mean—just look at the guy.” Jihoon motions to his partner through the glass wall of Namjoon’s office.

Seungcheol is sitting at his desk, surrounded by fawning interns and cops alike, all of them hanging on his every word.  Jihoon’s not sure what he could be telling them that could be so _captivating_ —but it involves a lot of explosive gestures, flailing limbs and heroics.

So—nothing that’s happened to them in the last 24 hours then.

Seungcheol catches them staring and waves, face bright with a mad-man’s smile. Jihoon’s seen less deranged faces on mental patients trussed up in strait jackets.

“We got made in less than a day, and if you send us on stake-out detail—we’ll get made again. Seungcheol isn’t exactly built for discretion.” Jihoon points out. For what he's pretty sure is the fourth, maybe the fifth, time.

Namjoon makes an irritable  _yes, yes_  gesture. “So, what do you suggest? Hmm? The fact that we’re _having_ this conversation tells me you have something specific in mind.”

Jihoon swallows tightly, eyes trained on the edge of the captain’s desk. He’s spent all night drafting his argument for why they should be put back on their murder case.

“Give us the case we were working on before. The bridge murder. We could assist homicide—they’re still working on last months case load and--”

“No.” Namjoon shakes his head, a resigned slump to his shoulders. “Homicide don’t need your interference. It’s Junhui’s case and frankly—you don’t have the experience needed. You’re both confined to desk duty till I sort this mess out.” He says, waving Jihoon out of the room.

* * *

Seungcheol gets his own de-briefing with Captain Namjoon next, where he relays his version of events and hopes it matches Jihoon’s.

He’s _obviously_ leaving out certain key details in his version. Like the stupid impulse that drove him to drug his partners orange juice, for instance.

Captain Namjoon doesn’t need to know about that. _Nobody_ needs to know how he spent a few hours watching Jihoon nap on his shoulder with barely concealed glee.

Jihoon seems to have kept his promise not to report him on that, because Captain Namjoon sends him back to his desk with a pat on the shoulder instead of asking him to hand in his gun and badge.

"Hey cupcake.” Seungcheol calls out to his partner, louder than he expressly needs to as he re-enters the squad room.

Jihoon looks up. The whole _room_ looks up actually and Seungcheol perversely enjoys the sight of Jihoon in all his irate glory, glaring at him across the desktop.

He can almost forgive himself for this ill-advised attraction of his—Jihoon is a true sight to behold, all that violent energy tucked away into snug little uniform. To say nothing of that adorable scowl.

Jihoon makes a noise, something between dismissal and irritation, and Seungcheol’s surprised by the lack of comeback.

Maybe he’s _grown_ on him? Isn’t that a pleasant thought.

“Captain says he wants that report on his desk by noon Jihoonie. How’s it coming along?" Seungcheol asks, perching on the back of a chair.

“Almost finished.” Jihoon grunts.

“Good.”

“Of course,” Jihoon pauses his typing to level him a mischievous look. “this _particular_ report is a little harder to write, seeing as I’m having to fill in some gaps in my memory as I was so busy _napping_.”

Seungcheol winces, shuffling the file folders around on his desk. “Yeah. Still sore about that huh? Is there uhm—anything I can get-“

“Coffee.” Jihoon interrupts.

“On it.” Seungcheol salutes. He heads over to the coffee station and fills Jihoon up a cup, makes sure it’s piping hot just the way Jihoon likes it.

When he brings it over to his partners desk, Jihoon sniffs it, brings it up to his lips and lifts a questioning brow.

Seungcheol winces again. “I promised I would never do that again.” He mumbles.

Jihoon doesn’t respond to that, but he takes a sip of coffee and Seungcheol suspects it’s to hide the smile forming on his face.

Seungcheol wishes he could see it for once—the smile. He prides himself on his ability to read people, to glean the nuances and depths of a person’s psyche simply by observing the way they smile.

It’s a handy skill that’s kept him alive in a lot of encounters; from the nervous twitch of a guilt-ridden crook to the sneering leer of a bank robber as they’re about to pull their gun on you. He’s learnt them all.

Jihoon, however, is a puzzle, and not just because the man never seems to smile at him.

Jihoon is a walking mixed message, exuding conflicting personalities. Sometimes he’s a model officer, standing at attention and responding to Captain Namjoon’s directives with an eager willingness to follow orders.

Other times, he’s a pouty baby, scowling at him from across the squad room.

Then there are those times when Seungcheol sees him engrossed in a case, sharp edges dulled by the placidity of work. In those times, Jihoon barely seems old enough to shave, much less wield a gun. For the life of him, Seungcheol can’t suss out which persona is the soul of the man, and which are the facades. Maybe they all combine to form Jihoon in one gorgeous little package. The continued uncertainty is maddening. 

* * *

 

Jihoon types up the last statement of his report and hits print. He pulls the sheet of paper from the printer and signs it, before pushing it across the desk for Seungcheol's signature.

Seungcheol starts burrowing in the desk for a pen, and Jihoon gives up.

"Here," he says, tossing his pen to his partner, who catches it neatly. Seungcheol signs with a flourish and hands the papers back. The pen—Jihoon’s pen—has already _disappeared_ into thin air.

Jihoon’s never getting it back. He’s lost count how many pens Seungcheol steals from him. He’s like a reverse magician or something.

"Don't you even read the reports?" Jihoon asks.

"Why should I? I know what's in 'em. I was there."

"Well—for all you know—I could have written _anything_. I could have been very honest."

Seungcheol shrugs, "I trust you." He says, trudging back to his work station.

Jihoon files his report away and then takes a copy to the captain as requested.

When he returns to the squad room, Seungcheol is sitting back in his chair, surrounded by a small pile of opened envelopes and toying absently at his lower lip as he squints at a letter.

“What are you doing?” Jihoon asks.

Seungcheol spares him a glance over the letter he’s reading. “I’m— _reading fan mail_.” He says with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“You don’t seem too excited about it.” Jihoon says.

“No—no, it’s nice. Just sometimes people can be—really intense.” Seungcheol murmurs, mouth twisted in frustration.

“I can’t believe you’re complaining about having your own fan base.” Jihoon scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.

Seungcheol wheels around in his chair and holds out the letter, Jihoon can see the tension in his face. “You think I’m being ungrateful? Here— _read_ _one_.”

Jihoon comes out from behind his desk and steps over to Seungcheol’s, taking the letter from his outstretched hand. He begins to read…

 

_Dear Seungcheol…_

_You haven’t replied to my last letter, but I’ll forgive you because I know you're busy keeping the streets clean from the scum and filth!_

_But you know what else is filthy and needs your attention? My big di…_

 

Jihoon stops reading, his eyes bulge. “Okay—but, I’m sure they’re not all like—"

Before he can adequately form a response, Seungcheol is waving another letter at him.

“Here, read another.” Seungcheol says, handing him another letter.

This one is a sort of marigold colour, the envelope, upon inspection, hand-folded with small hearts dotted around Seungcheol’s name. Jihoon doesn’t even have to open it to know it’s from a complete psycho.

_Dear Dashing Officer Seungcheol,_

_Do you miss me?_

_Of course you don’t. You don’t even know who I am._

_I’m insignificant to a big, bad police officer like you. But, it’s okay. I think about us together plenty for the both of us!_

_Incidentally, I had a dream about you just last night. It was delicious!_

_You arrested me for a grievous bodily sexiness. You’ll know what I mean when you look at the photograph I’ve attached. And before, you ask—yes—I did photo-shop that extra penis on my forehead._

_In my dream, you were very rough with me. I approve._

_You cuffed me, then tossed me in the back of your patrol car. Then you proceeded to lick…_

 

Jihoon’s face turns red and he looks away as he hands the letter back. “Wow.”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow. “I know, right?”

Jihoon can feel a cold sweat break out on his forehead. “I have a new-found respect for you. This is pretty awful. And creepy”

Seungcheol tips his head in agreement. “That’s pretty tame compared to most. Especially if you compare it to this one. _This_ guy is a nutter.” He laughs, handing Jihoon a dark teal envelope with the stations address spelled out in neat block letters.  

“What makes you so sure he’s a guy?” Jihoon asks curiously, slipping the letter out and unfolding it.

Seungcheol’s expression is pained, and – as far as Jihoon can tell – completely void of theatrics. He sighs. “Just read...”

_Officer Choi,_

_I saw your picture in the Busan Tribune for the Man of the year award. You were so fucking hot._

_The centrefold pictures served as great wanking material, but I couldn’t control my aim and ended up wrecking the magazine._

_But fear not, I went out that very day about bought ten copies of that magazine, just so that I could jizz all over your pretty…_

 

“Oh my god.” Jihoon chokes. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but judging by Seungcheol’s amused expression, it must be doing  _something_ , and probably something Jihoon wouldn’t like.

“You want to read another?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon nods, despite the level of depravity—he’s kind of enjoying this.

Seungcheol lets him pick from the pile of already opened envelopes sitting on his desk. Jihoon chooses a large one, heavy cream-colored paper that he runs an appreciative finger across before opening.

_Dear Seungcheol,_

_I saw you jogging in the park today, but was too shy to approach you. You are truly more handsome in person then on TV, and the photographs of you in the Busan Tribune simply do not do you justice._

_You are truly a fine specimen of a man._

_I was sitting on the park bench across from the water fountain sketching some birds when you passed me. You were a far more interesting subject, and so I began to sketch you instead._

_When I returned home that evening, I was disappointed by the lack of dimension of my sketches, and added a personal touch. I hope you approve. I have enclosed my sketch._

_I would love to draw you again sometime, if you’d be so kind as to pose for me._

_I await your reply—my love._

_xx_

 

Jihoon folds over the letter. He’s almost creeped out, and he’d be a liar if he said that he didn’t look around, just in case someone is sitting outside the office window— _sketching_.

“That’s pretty creepy.” He admits.

“You should see the sketch.” Seungcheol laughs, handing over another piece of paper, slightly wilted at the edges.

Jihoon examines the picture; a drawing of Seungcheol in motion, running through the park. The chalk outline is barely discernible through the smears of red paint the artist as chosen to colour it with.

“Why did he paint it all in red?” Jihoon asks, slightly puzzled.

Seungcheol’s face looks amused, yet slightly pained. “Jihoon—that’s his blood.”

Jihoon rockets backwards, flinging the drawing to the side as though afraid it will detonate. “Oh—fuck—gross.”

“I know—feel like I need a shower.” Seungcheol groans.

Jihoon can’t help it then, he bursts out laughing. In fact, he’s laughing so hard, he has to flop down into a chair to stop him from doubling over in the middle of the squad room.

All this time he’s just assumed Seungcheol’s had an easy go of things, living it up in his moment of glory, when in fact he’s having to deal with deranged fans and stalkers.

Seungcheol doesn’t seem to mind his immature outburst of amusement though, he’s smiling back hard enough to light up the whole room.

Jihoon wipes the tears from the corner of his eyes. “Sorry, sorry. Oh god. That’s not funny. I shouldn’t laugh.” he says when he calms down a little.

Seungcheol’s still smiling though, but his expression has shifted into something not so easy to define. Jihoon would be tempted to call it— _hunger_.

“It’s cool. I’m glad you enjoy my stalker mail. It’s nice to see you smile.” Seungcheol says quietly.

Jihoon opens his mouth to protest, or to at least find some sort of withering comment appropriate to the situation, or to just make noise, but Seungcheol’s grinning at him like he expects it. It softens his response.

“Hey, I smile— _occasionally_.” He murmurs.

“Ahh—you’re right,” Seungcheol nods, leaning forward to whisper, “You _did_ smile a lot after I drugged your juice.”

Jihoon points a finger at him. “Those smiles don’t count—that was the drugs making me smile.”

“So—most of the smiles I’ve witnessed from you, I have to disregard? That’s not fair Jihoonie.” Seungcheol says, in an elaborately fake wounded tone.

Jihoon finds himself—struggling to resist _another_ smile incidentally. He gives up trying to resist it, but forces his gaze on the floor instead of at Seungcheol’s triumphant grin.

“Oh—my—god. You’re doing it again. Two smiles in one day—and a few minutes apart. _Is it my birthday?”_ Seungcheol gasps.

The burst of warmth this fills Jihoon with is truly ridiculous. His jaw aches from embarrassment, he can feel his cheeks heating up under Seungcheol's adoring stare. “I don’t know what to tell you Seungcheol, there’s probably some drugs in my system from yesterday.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “Whatever you say, Jihoonie.”

“What’s in that pile?” Jihoon deflects, gesturing to a separate pile of letters on Seungcheol’s desk.

Seungcheol’s expression darkens a little. “Death threats.”

Jihoon’s head snaps up, he blinks. “You get _death threats?”_

“Oh yeah,” Seungcheol nods, mouth drawn into a tight line. “Most of my fan-mail is death threats.”

Jihoon reaches over to thumb through the thick stack, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He takes a long swallow, and his voice is just a little more hoarse than usual when he speaks next. “Jesus Christ Cheol—this is intense. Have you reported this?”

Seungcheol looks up at him with a serious expression. “Yeah, sure—the first few letters. But there’s nothing they can do really.”

“They can investigate it!” Jihoon says a tad incredulously. “A death threat isn’t something to be taken lightly. Especially when you’re a cop.”

Seungcheol gives him a reassuring pat on the leg. “It’s cool. It comes with the fame I guess and—most of the letters are from anonymous people who hate that their spouses fantasize about me— _bending them over things._ I guess it’s their way of venting. The ones that _have_ been traced are usually from inmates. Nobody I’ve arrested—but it’s nice that they’re working on their penmanship in prison.”

Jihoon bites his lip thoughtfully. “You seem pretty upbeat about it.”

“Well—I’m used to it. And it shouldn’t come as a surprise to _you_ that not everyone likes me.” Seungcheol offers, making a show of looking Jihoon up and down.

The accusation catches Jihoon off-guard. He can’t come up with a quick retort because it’s so unexpected.

It’s not true. And it’s not the same, but he can’t exactly reply with— _'You annoy me because you’re unfairly hot and I dream about you!’_

Just then, Captain Namjoon bursts into the squad room with a giant grin on his face and a dilapidated cardboard box in his arms, Jihoon braces himself for whatever "new case" their captain was assigning them next.

Namjoon dumps the cardboard box onto Seungcheol’s desk and steps back looking immensely pleased with himself.

Without preamble, Jihoon pulls his glasses out of his shirt pocket and props them on the tip of his nose, and starts pulling out videotapes. It looks to be a CCTV footage archive with how they’re all labelled.

“Err—what’s this Cap?” Seungcheol asks, sitting up a little straighter to peer inside the box.

Namjoon smiles at this, like he's genuinely glad he asked. “Your next assignment.”

“Organising your Disney VHS collection? You know cap, it’s 2017—you should upgrade to DVD or Blu-ray. But it’s understandable that _you’d_ struggle with the leap in technology.” Seungcheol jokes.  

Jihoon’s eyes widen a fraction; he doesn’t know how Seungcheol gets away with being so casual around the captain, but that line of thought is brought to a halt by Namjoon's snort. 

“I would never bring my Disney Blu-ray collection to the office Dimples. It’s priceless!” Namjoon says, practically offended by the suggestion.

Jihoon doesn’t know which one of them he should stare at harder.

“No—this is CCTV footage from outside the Mayor’s residence and his office.” Namjoon explains, which perks Jihoon’s interest.

“Is this to do with the mayor’s request for additional police protection? Has somebody threatened the mayor’s life?” Jihoon asks.

“Uhh— _No_. Somebody scratched a swear word into the side of his Bentley. He wants to know who. He’s very upset about it, so I told him I would put my best men on the case.” Namjoon finishes with aplomb.

Jihoon looks at the captain with amazement. He can see where this is going and he wants to object, strongly. “And that’s us?”

“Bingo. Have fun going through the footage.” Namjoon says, turning on his heel.

“Captain—you can’t be serious? This is how you’re using us?” Jihoon says, slowly, so the captain can grasp the full ridiculousness of the whole situation.

The captain just regards him coolly. “For now—yes. As you so _helpfully_ pointed out earlier—I can’t put you back on stake-out detail because your partners too famous. So, this is what you’ll be doing till things die down.” Namjoon says stiffly.

Jihoon turns slowly, prepared to apologise to Seungcheol for getting them landed with this ridiculous case—only to find Seungcheol hunkering over the stations battered VHS played and loading the first tape in.

He doesn’t seem to give a shit that they’ve been landed with this cake walk.

“I bet you it was his wife.” Seungcheol laughs, sitting back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk. “Only his wife would know to hit him right where it hurts.”

* * *

 

When Jihoon arrives to work the next day, the air conditioning in the station is broken.

This wouldn’t be a problem except for three other things: first, it’s June-turning-into-July and Busan is basically a swamp, second, they’re stuck in the station all day watching CCTV footage in the sauna of a squad-room, and thirdly, Seungcheol seems to have no compunctions about dealing with the heat by walking around _shirtless_.

 _Yes, that’s right. Shirtless_.

Seungcheol’s treating the entire station like his own personal locker room: strolling through the hallways shirtless, going to the bathroom shirtless, buying chips from the vending machine shirtless — he even went to the fucking squad meeting shirtless, and spent most of the time absent-mindedly running his fingers back and forth over his chest.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow and the station sergeant looked confused and everyone else looked like all of their Christmases had come at once, but nobody actually told him to  _put a fucking shirt on._

_What the actual fuck?_

Jihoon wants to file a sexual harassment order or something. Granted he doesn’t _have_ to look at shirtless Seungcheol—but how can he not? He’s _there_ —in all his shirtless glory—and— _oh god_.

Jihoon thought that perhaps he’d habituated himself to the sight of Seungcheol’s bare torso after having several dreams featuring the guy, but it turns out that a fantasy image of the man didn’t remotely prepare him for the real, up close and personal version.

Jihoon finds his eyes lingering on when they should be looking at his notes, his phone, or  _anything else_. 

It’s not just inappropriate and distracting, it’s  _dangerous._  

An auxiliary officer had to leave work early because she walked into a doorframe. Seungcheol is literally a health hazard. A few years ago Jihoon dated a law student, who introduced him to the term “attractive nuisance”; Jihoon can’t quite remember the technical definition but he’s pretty sure that Seungcheol is one.

It doesn’t help matters that Jihoon’s somewhat illogical technique for dealing with Seungcheol’s lack of etiquette is to wear as many clothes as possible.

He’s dressed full uniform and then some. So, by the time they’ve gotten through half the box of CCTV tapes he’s sweated through three shirts, and his boxers may need more help than a dry cleaner can provide. 

All in all, Jihoon is miserable and dehydrated and frustrated and he feels like he’ll never be comfortable again. So, when Seungcheol turns to him after they’ve loaded another tape into the player and says, “I’m gonna grab a drink, you want one cupcake?”

Jihoon doesn’t think twice, he just says. “Yeah, something cold.”

Then he gives himself a mental slap for responding to the term as if it were his name. Mingyu’s sitting right behind Seungcheol as well. He could just as easily have been speaking to him. Except Jihoon knows he wasn't.

He’s going to blame that temporary insanity on heat stroke.

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s lost count of how many hours of grainy CCTV footage they’ve watched. All he knows is that he has a headache, he hates the Mayor, hates his stupid fucking Bentley, and when he _does_ find the man, woman or child who scratched it—he’s going to shake their hand.

The video they’re watching comes to an end, and Seungcheol leans over to swap the tape for another when the phone on the desks behind theirs starts ringing.

Junhui and Minghao, who are having late lunch at their desks, spare it half a glance but keep on eating.

After the eighth ring, Jihoon spins in his chair and glares at the phone as though it offended him personally.

“Shouldn’t you answer that?” Jihoon snaps.

Junhui shrugs. “We’re on lunch.” He mumbles around a mouthful of burger.

Then their cell phones start ringing simultaneously and they have no choice but to answer. 

Minghao slams the phone back in the cradle and stands. “John doe under a bridge—let’s roll.” He says, screwing up the rest of his burger wrapper and dumping it in the trash.

“That makes three.” Jihoon says suddenly, and they both pause to look at him.

Minghao squints at him. “So?”

“So—I would say that warrants suspicion. If your John Doe is a male in his late twenties, with a criminal record and a history of drug possession—that would make him a pretty close match to the other two unsolved cases you’ve had.”

Junhui doesn't look convinced, though he's been a homicide detective long enough to play it carefully.  “What’s your point Jihoon?”

“Three murder victims in as many months— _with matching histories_ —all hung off a bridge. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Jihoon offers, like it's a thread of wisdom he shouldn't have to be sharing, they should all know already.

Seungcheol smiles at his partner. He’s happy enough to spend the rest of the day watching pointless CCTV footage, but it makes sense for Jihoon to become restless. He’s young and inquisitive. It’s part of what makes him a good cop—what will make him a great detective.

Jun doesn’t seem to think so, because all Jihoon gets for his efforts is an eye roll and a huff of impatience.

“You know what strikes me as odd Jihoon? You wearing five layers when the air con is broke.”

“I’m fine.” Jihoon says, too flatly and too fast.

“You don’t look fine. You look like you’re about to collapse from heat exhaustion.” Minghao adds.

“He’s right you do.” Seungcheol interjects before he realizes it would've been better to keep his mouth shut.

Jihoon’s eyes darken murderously. “Can we get back to the case at hand?” His voice grates, sounding frustrated and angry. Though he's clearly making an effort to look calm.

“Uh— **no**. It’s _our_ case.” Junhui says pointedly, heading towards the door.

“Yeah, we don’t need the input. But if we come across any CCTV footage we need trawling, we’ll be sure to let you know.” Minghao laughs.

After the door thumps shut, Jihoon turns back around and stares at the tv screen, frowning harder as the minutes tick by.

Whatever it was in those crime scene photos that Jihoon was obsessing over the other day, it's clear he's still working on it, mind turning it over and over. It's something he hasn't dropped, perhaps something he can't drop.

Seungcheol's getting used to Jihoon’s silent, angry thinking, and his moments of obvious frustration. He's fairly sure that getting used to it isn't a good thing though. He worries about his partner, because he never shares. Sometimes Seungcheol would just like to know what he’s thinking, so he can help. Seungcheol’s always on firmer footing when he can help.

Seungcheol feels kind of sorry for him too, because this isn’t the first time Jihoon’s insight has been dismissed.

It’s not that the other officers see him as inexperienced or anything—yes, even after two years, he’s still green, still learning the ropes—it’s just that Jihoon has a way of needling people into an uncooperative state. Rubbing people up the wrong way instead of forging alliances.

Seungcheol suspects Jihoon’s not very good at making friends. Rookies who dislike him outright or veterans that keep treating him like some adorable kid brother seem to pile up fairly quickly though.

Maybe it’s his determination, or maybe the way he carries himself, or maybe it’s because he’s brilliant and clever and too damn good for this job and everyone knows it.

Seungcheol realises he’s been sitting there staring at the side of Jihoon’s head in confused fascination long enough for Jihoon to notice it.

"You're staring, rather obviously." Jihoon sounds amused rather than annoyed. He barely looks away from the screen as he says it.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what about this case has got you so worked up. First the crime scene photos the other day, and now you’re squeezing Junhui for info.”

Jihoon shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

Seungcheol puts a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder, his expression serious. “I mean, if you’re that interested in the case—we could just go upstairs and ask that science nerd Wonwoo to share the evidence from the crime scene.”

Jihoon pulls a face, as if there are already three things he disapproves of in that sentence.

“He’s a forensics expert,” Jihoon corrects as he shrugs off Seungcheol’s hand. “And I already asked the captain, it’s not my case.”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair with a sigh. “Figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jihoon pouts, suddenly defensive to an endearing degree.

“That you’d be so by the books you’d be against the idea, even if you’d have better insight on the case than Junhui.” Seungcheol says in his best coaxing voice. “But, whatever, I’m sure he’ll figure it out whatever you’ve noticed eventually.”

Jihoon makes a rude noise, objecting to the opinion without actually admitting that it's not true.

“Nevermind me—forget I said anything. Going through this CCTV footage is _so_ much more fun.” Seungcheol says dryly.

Jihoon scowls, a pinch between his eyes. The silence lingers for a moment before he speaks again.

“I—I just don’t want to get in trouble.” He sighs and leans forward onto his knees. “The captain is already pissed off with us.” He says quietly.

“So?”

“I don’t like it when people are angry with me, Seungcheol. I make a point of not flaunting protocol just to avoid that.” He says, nose scrunching adorably.

Seungcheol grins. “Oh fuck. You’re cute.”

“W-what?” Jihoon gasps, looking confused, and Seungcheol has a second to catch himself and remember Jihoon's someone who can probably kill him with a spoon and a paperclip and make it look like suicide.

He shouldn't be thinking of him as anything other than the guy who knows 148 ways to kill a man and dispose of the body without detection. Calling him cute to his face is definitely not in the cards.

“Getting upset about pissing the captain off.” Seungcheol tries to deflect. “It’s cute.” He adds—and _oh shit he’s done it again._ He holds a hand up in a placating gesture. “I don’t mean that in a patronizing way, I just—”

Jihoon cuts him off with a look, Seungcheol has no idea how he _does_ that. How he manages to get across 'stop talking' without saying a word.

Seungcheol snaps his mouth shut for a moment, then opens it again.

“I just figure you’re the type who’s never disappointed their parents before. Or—you can’t handle disappointing people. It’s a new concept to you. I on the other hand, am completely used to it. I’m a _huge_ disappointment.”

Jihoon turns his head, looking at Seungcheol out of the corner of his eye. “You’re hardly a disappointment. Not with all your awards and— _fame_.” He says matter-of-factly, although it sounds suspiciously like there's an eye-roll in there.

“That doesn’t erase _years_ of disappointment Jihoon. This recognition will only shut my dad up for so long.” Seungcheol says.

The tiniest flicker of surprise flashes across the Jihoon’s face, and he turns to face Seungcheol with an inquisitive look.

Seungcheol considers how to play it, and decides he is too tired, too worn out, too sick of the past to elaborate. Maybe the truth will confuse Jihoon more than a glib reply.

“My point is—sometimes you have to break the rules a little to start heading in the right direction.”

Jihoon looks at him, that steady considering look where Seungcheol can see calculations going on behind his eyes. He thinks maybe there's a chance he's convincing Jihoon, just a little bit.

“Wonwoo’s never going to share Junhui’s case willingly. He’s got a _thing_ for him.” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“They’re not an item or anything—I think he just has a crush. Always processing Junhui’s case-loads first kinda thing.” Jihoon elaborates.

Seungcheol taps a finger on his chin thoughtfully. “He likes to handle Junhui’s loads you say?” He questions with a leer.

The tips of Jihoon's ears turn pink. “I didn’t say it like _that_. I’m just saying—he won’t be very cooperative. He adheres strictly to forensic protocol—only the presiding officer gets the case notes. No exceptions. Unless you’re the captain.”

Seungcheol arches an eyebrow at that, but Jihoon immediately raises his hand, dismissing whatever stupid plan Seungcheol’s brain hadn’t come up with yet. “You’re not going to disguise yourself as the Captain Seungcheol. It won’t work.”

“I wasn’t even going to suggest that cupcake.” Seungcheol says in the driest voice he can muster.

Jihoon snorts. _“Sure you weren’t.”_

“We’ll just have to distract him—the ol-fashioned way.” Seungcheol says easily.

There's a brief pause, then Jihoon says, “And how do you suppose we’ll do that?”

* * *

 

Jihoon’s looking forward to stealing evidence from Wonwoo with as much excitement as passing a kidney stone, and rightly so, it turns out. The experience proves to be equally painful and nerve-wracking.

When he first joined the Busan Police department, Jihoon liked Wonwoo from the start—mainly due to Wonwoo’s attention to detail, professionalism and good work ethic.

But Wonwoo is sometimes a little too by-the-book for Jihoon’s own preferences —and considering _how_ by-the-book Jihoon _is_ —that’s saying something.

“What do you want?” Wonwoo says, immediately distrustful when Seungcheol enters his lab.

“I was hoping you could have a look at this VHS player. It’s acting up. I think there is a video jammed in there.” Seungcheol says, heaving the ancient looking device on the counter and deliberately unsettling several pieces of precariously placed equipment in the process.

Wonwoo has to throw himself to the floor to catch a rack of test tubes that topple over, and it’s enough of a distraction for Jihoon to slip through the door unnoticed.

“No, I’m on a strict schedule.” Wonwoo grumbles, setting his test-tubes down carefully. “Go away, come again another day.”

“ _Little Wonu wants to play_.” Seungcheol sing-songs in reply.

“What?”

Seungcheol shrugs affably. “I thought you were singing that nursery rhyme. _Rain, rain—go away_.”

“I wasn’t.” Wonwoo responds, flat.

“Oh well—will you look at the VHS player now?” Seungcheol presses, advancing another step.

Wonwoo barely manages to keep in his moan of exasperation, “No.”

Jihoon barely manages to keep in how _own_ moan of exasperation.

Seungcheol offered to play decoy here because he’s larger, can be intimidating and uses it to his advantage when necessary, but this thin, bespectacled nerd in a tie— _and, seriously,_  Jihoon thinks,  _who wears a tie with a labcoat?_ —looks at Seungcheol as if he’s just another in a long line of annoyances that he doesn't want to deal with. He looks like he wants to poison Seungcheol, or at least punch him really hard for distracting him just on principle.

 _Well_ , Jihoon knows the feeling.

He’s just grateful Seungcheol agreed to put a shirt on for this.

On second thought—Seungcheol should have just walked into the lab shirtless and done away with the whole broken VHS player thing! That would have been a better distraction and everyone would have enjoyed themselves.

Damn.

It’s too late to do a thing about it now. 

“Hey—what’s this thingy here?” Seungcheol says, moving over to the other side of the lab to create a window of opportunity for Jihoon to move. “Is this a microscope. Looks expensive!”

“Don’t touch that!” Wonwoo snaps, shielding the no doubt priceless piece of equipment from Seungcheol’s poking.

Seungcheol moves on pleasantly enough, but starts poking at something else instead.

There’s a lot of unnecessary poking and prodding of high tech equipment going on, like Seungcheol’s using Wonwoo’s stuff for a drum solo. It’s a fine distraction though, because Wonwoo has no choice but to follow him, casting wordless daggers in his direction.

Jihoon quietly manoeuvres around the lab, staying low as he ducks behind a bench covered with piles of notes and complex calculations.

Seungcheol is doing a good job of keeping Wonwoo side-tracked and Jihoon lifts his head from his hiding spot behind the bench to scope out the place. There’s a stack of folders near the fume cupboard to his left, and one of them is likely to be the case file he needs.

“Aw—cool!” Seungcheol cheers as Wonwoo hisses “Stop touching everything!”

Seungcheol makes a series of complicated hand gestures at Jihoon, that could mean anything from, _‘Over there,’_ to _‘I really like your eyes’—_ Jihoon's pretty sure it's not the latter, but he wouldn't bet on the former either.

“Jesus—Wonwoo—is this a bong? Are you allowed to smoke that in here?” Seungcheol chuckles, gesturing to the equipment Wonwoo has sealed in a cabinet that does look suspiciously like a glass bong.

Wonwoo rubs a hand across his forehead. “It’s not a bong! It’s a Kipp’s apparatus.” He sighs, and Seungcheol smiles that ridiculous, goofy smile he sometimes has.

“What’s it for?” He asks slowly, tilting his head stupidly, and is rewarded with another sigh.

Wonwoo looks like he's trying to be patient, but the jut of his chin and the twitch in his eyes say he's failing miserably.  “It’s to prepare small volumes of gas.”

Seungcheol snorts laughter. “Ha. You said gas! Like a fart.”

Wonwoo’s expression seems to be saying _'I'm going to humour you, because you have a gun’._

“Yes, very funny Seungcheol—now if you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of a very important—OH MY GOD DON’T TOUCH THAT!”

“Whoops.” Seungcheol says, and Jihoon hears glass crack followed by the sound of something fizzing ominously. He hopes whatever it is isn’t explosive or poisonous and they won’t all drop dead in the next ten seconds.

“You idiot! Do you realise what you’ve just done?” Wonwoo hisses at Seungcheol.

 _Shit_ —Jihoon thinks.

This is a terrible idea. Jihoon ought to call it off. He's frankly lost control over this entire situation.

Oh, fuck it. Jihoon had no control over the situation to begin with.

On the bright side, he at least learns that Wonwoo is not an emotionless automaton, after all—he’s too fond of yelling several unflattering things at Seungcheol to be a robot.

Seungcheol’s not doing a very good job of looking apologetic; he’s smiling like the sun as Wonwoo busies himself grabbing tongs and paper towels to clean up the mess.

“Sorry—it just looked so _shiny_.” Seungcheol laughs, making an impatient gesture behind his back at Jihoon to hurry the fuck up.

Jihoon reaches the desk by the fume cupboard and starts carefully rifling through the stack of case folders, wondering how socialising with Seungcheol had somehow made him less worried about bending the law.

Wonwoo’s meticulously organized files each have a case number printed on the cover, so it’s easy to find the one they’re searching for.

Jihoon manages to grab it without disrupting the stack, and sneak out as Wonwoo’s explaining how _‘Kipps apparatus is no longer used in modern lab techniques and this was a collectors piece you idiot!’_

Jihoon wipes the sweat of his brow and undoes the first few buttons on his shirt as he waits in the corridor.

“That was easy.” Seungcheol says, appearing at Jihoon's elbow, and tugging him towards the elevator. Jihoon can still hear Wonwoo cursing up a storm halfway down the corridor.

“Yeah. You’re a good decoy. You’re very _annoying_.” Jihoon offers.

“Thanks.” Seungcheol looks touched, which is not what Jihoon was going for. 

 Jihoon laughs, shaking his head. “Just—come on.”

* * *

 

They stay up all night working through Junhui’s case files, and when they reach a dead end, they head down to cold case storage for any other cases that match.

They wade through boxes covered in years of dust,  _decades_  of dust. Until Jihoon feels like he is breathing in several lifetimes worth of the stuff. His brain feels over-stuffed and tender, and there's a sore spot behind his left eye, which he can't help but imagine will turn into a seizure, if he doesn't sleep soon.

Junhui’s convinced there isn’t a link, and Jihoon is living on coffee and the burning desire to prove him wrong ever since. Which he has accomplished, because he's a genius. 

They find at least another _three_ cases matching the killers MO. And that’s just from manual effort. There could be dozens of cases hidden in the depth of cold case that nobody’s thought to check out.

They grab the files they can, spread them out on one of the desks in the empty observation rooms and immerse themselves fully in what Jihoon privately thinks of as the fun part of the job.

Jihoon expects Seungcheol to call it a day and go home.

Seungcheol keeps... not doing that. He lugs the heavy boxes up from storage, he organises the case notes into a workable timeline, he commandeers a whiteboard from _somewhere_ and pins all the key pieces of evidence to it. He’s really fucking helpful all round.

He even brings Jihoon regular coffee refills when his cup gets cold, stroking an absent palm down the back of Jihoon’s head as he sets down the cup. Normally Jihoon would snap at that—but it's like there's a Seungcheol-shaped hole in Jihoon's defences.

It’s soothing to have Seungcheol there actually—acting like a sponge, soaking up all Jihoon’s tired, frustrated grumblings and countering with helpful suggestions.

It takes Jihoon two hours to go through Wonwoo’s lab results. His grasp of chemical analysis isn't exactly up-to-date, or in any way good enough to understand the graphs and charts. The carefully printed numbers that are ringed and notated in red pen mean nothing to him either. The compound ‘succinylcholine (Anectine)’ features heavily through all six cases and a quick search determines it’s the active ingredient in a sedative cocktail.

Forensic analysis aside, how Junhui failed to see these cases were linked is _baffling_. There is a clear pattern here, in the victims if nothing else.

All six had a history of substance abuse, convictions for possession or serving time for possession with intent to sell. The tox reports indicated they had all been drugged with a homemade cocktail and the post mortem alluded to death by strangulation. Not to mention, all the bodies were discovered hanging under a bridge—with the exception of the one victim who was found floating face down in the river because the rope didn’t hold.

There is definitely a pattern here, and it probably would be more obvious is Jihoon could make sense of Jun’s ludicrous case notes.

“Look at these case notes. Is Jun even a cop?” Jihoon grumbles, trying to make sense of the detectives handwriting. “I can’t make sense of this at all! What even is this word? _Corvette_? _Vinaigrette_?”

Seungcheol comes around the edge of the desk, and hands him a fresh cup of coffee. Jihoon takes a much-needed gulp. It burns his tongue, but the sweetness is better than the stale taste of dust and canteen sandwiches he had for lunch.

“Cigarette.” Seungcheol confirms, squinting at the scattering of words on the page. He points to another, “And I think that word there is meant to be _menthol_. Shit—Junhui can’t spell.”

Jihoon snorts. “I’ll say.”

He takes another mouthful of coffee, then almost spits it out when he makes the connection. “Wait—menthol cigarette?” He repeats, louder than he probably needs to, considering Seungcheol is only two meters or so away.

In the next second he’s scrambling through his notes, rifling through the evidence bags on his desk to find the one he needs.

“There!” He says, handing Seungcheol the cigarette butt sealed in a clear bag he’d been hunting for.

Seungcheol surveys the evidence bag with a critical eye, “This was picked up from the last murder.”

“Yeah—but menthol cigarettes were found at four other crime scenes as well. There was probably a menthol cigarette butt at the 5th, but registered as immaterial and nobody thought to bag it as evidence. All of them were tested for DNA but the results didn’t pull up anything. It can’t be just coincidence. I mean—why smoke those if you’re going to smoke at all?”

Seungcheol leans over his shoulder and takes a peek, and for a minute, all the hair on the back of Jihoon's neck stands up from the proximity. Seungcheol is warm, and Jihoon's traitorous body wants to press closer against him. He forces himself to sit straight. 

“Shit—you’re right. That can’t be a coincidence. The previous investigating officers must have just dismissed it when the DNA didn’t pull up anything.”

Jihoon hums agreement. “What if this guy doesn’t have a record? What if he’s never been convicted of anything and his prints aren’t on the system—but it’s the same guy getting away with one murder after the next. For _years_.”

Seungcheol blinks and moves closer. “Are you suggesting we’re dealing with a serial killer?” He says, eyes burning with unholy glee.

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Seungcheol— _please_. A potential serial killer on the loose isn’t something to be excited about.”

Seungcheol half-shrugs, a minute shift of one shoulder, “It kind of is though, especially one who’s been working unnoticed for so long. Just imagine—If _we’re_ the ones who finally expose him. I know it’s still early days and we’re working with less than half of the facts here—but you’ve just figured something out the other investigating officers have overlooked. What if there’s more we can find?”

“There’s gotta be. I mean—nobody’s perfect. He’s bound to have fucked up somewhere,” Jihoon says, although it's purely fucking hypothetical, he can’t help but stare at the stub of the menthol cigarette in the evidence bag wistfully, “Usually when they first start out, they’re prone to making rookie mistakes before they perfect their techniques.”

Seungcheol nods encouragingly. “We could work backwards—figure out his first kill and link it all together.”

Jihoon weathers his lower lip at the thought. “It is a little exciting, I guess.” He admits wilfully.

Seungcheol actually smiles at him, warm and sweet. “That’s my boy.” He breathes in Jihoon’s ear, giving him a once-over that makes Jihoon a little breathless.

That turn of phrase should not make the breath catch in Jihoon's throat the way it does. He blinks, opens his mouth and closes it. He feels like someone rearranged his brain without informing him in advance. He thinks maybe the combination of the heat and lack of sleep isn't a good idea after all. It's going to his head.

Or—his _dick_ , if he’s being _totally_ honest.

_My boy._

Fuck. He shifts uncomfortably trying not to look like he is shifting at all. He’s going to chalk the heaviness in his groin up to really needing to take a piss.

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “We need to show the captain this.” He says.

Jihoon shakes his head, and adopts Namjoon’s drawl. “Good Job fellas, you disobeyed a direct order and found some crucial evidence that links all these murder cases. Now tell me—how’s the CCTV search going? Hmm?”

“And how is the CCTV search going?” Namjoon’s voice comes from the doorway. Seungcheol and Jihoon both whirl around in horror. “Your accent needs work, Jihoon. Perhaps some field assignments in traffic for you?”

“Yessir. I mean, no, sir,” Jihoon stammers.

Seungcheol stands up straight. “Hey Cap, didn’t realise you were working late.” He says, and then raises his eyebrows and mouths  _Busted_  at Jihoon.

Namjoon tosses them a sharp look, something that's layered with judgement and focus “Both of you—my office— _now_.”

* * *

 

Namjoon waves at them to sit down, eyes raking over them with customary alacrity.

Jihoon watches as Namjoon picks up the case file, then slams it down on his desk. It was already ON the desk, but Jihoon suspects the slamming of case files is done more for effect.

Namjoon tips his head forward and looks  _disappointed._

Jesus, Jihoon can feel the italics.

“What did I tell you about interfering with homicides investigation?” Namjoon says warningly. He’s leaning on the table now, attention focused on Jihoon completely.

Jihoon feels a little like a caged lion at the zoo, and wonders when the conversation had turned exclusively to him.

He can feel irrational anger churning in his gut, anger he wants to take out on his partner, but he keeps himself in check.

“I—just,” Jihoon begins to argue his case when Seungcheol interrupts.

“Juhui’s treating these deaths as unrelated. He’s refusing to look at the bigger picture when there is clearly a pattern.”

Namjoon shakes his head dismissively. “That’s not the point. The point is Jihoon disobeyed a direct order.”

Seungcheol makes a face. “ _We_.”

“What?”

“ _We_ disobeyed a direct order. Jihoon and I are _partners_ —it’s very unlikely that one of us would make a call like that without consulting the other. Why’s he getting pinned for this?”

Jihoon feels an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks, especially when Captain Namjoon raises an eyebrow at him. Namjoon huffs a strange laugh, and Jihoon suspects Seungcheol’s just won a point.

“Yes, but—Jihoon has a reputation for not handing over cases when directed. You don’t.” Namjoon says pointedly.

“Perhaps, but it was my idea to take the evidence notes from the lab and examine them. I dragged Jihoon along even though he pointed out your orders. So, I guess—if _anyone’s_ getting in trouble here—it’s gonna be me.”

The Captain narrows his eyes, using the look he gives detained criminals when he doesn’t buy their bullshit. It’s a pretty effective look, one that would make an angel drop and repent. It seems to have absolutely no discernible effect on Seungcheol who just reclines indolently in his seat and stares back at Namjoon challengingly.

Namjoon rubs at his jaw, and Jihoon isn't sure if he’s impressed or pissed off. His gaze rakes over them both. “Did you at least find anything useful while you were flaunting protocol?”

“Yup, lots of things. Very _interesting_ things: patterns, links, new evidence. But I guess since this isn’t _our_ case—we’ll just toss those insights out.” Seungcheol says offhandedly. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, chin tipped up defiantly, waiting for the inevitable rant.

Namjoon drags the case file towards himself and flips it open, perusing it out of the corner of his eye. Jihoon wants to butt in with their findings, to say something to ease the tension—but then his eyes meet Seungcheol’s, and Seungcheol winks at him.

Jihoon feels the tension ease off, wondering if Namjoon knows he’s being bated.

Namjoon snaps the folder shut after a moment, and waves a hand in the way that he has of trying to appear dismissive even though he knows he’s been bested. “I’m not about to pull Junhui off this case based on a few hours of research. You’ll have to do better than that fell-”

“C’mon Jihoon—" Seungcheol adds, talking over the captain with ease. “Close your eyes and erase all those insightful links you had that may or may not help us solve this case.”

Jihoon, stupidly, closes his eyes. He snaps them open again when Namjoon slams a hand down on the table—also, probably for effect.

He looks like he regrets doing that now. It looks like it hurts.

Namjoon leans back in his chair, rubbing his hand and looking pensive. “You really think you can do better on this?”

“ _Positive_.” Seungcheol waves him off, an airy gesture. “ _Unless_ —you think watching hours of pointless CCTV footage is better suited for our skillset? You’re the one who’s sighing our pay cheques, after all.”

Jihoon purses his lips and ducks his head, watching his partner sidelong and trying not to laugh at the Captain’s increasingly frustrated appearance.

Seungcheol turns to face him then, quirking a brow. “I don’t know about you Jihoon, but if ** _I_** was the captain— ** _I’d_** be more concerned about the six unsolved murders pinned on the whiteboard board—then trying to please my buddy, _the Mayor_ , who might get voted out of office next month.”

Namjoon chokes at that suggestion, but Seungcheol doesn’t flinch. Jihoon is torn between  _you smug fucker_  and helpless pure adoration.

Despite his better judgement, Jihoon decides to contribute to this sly tactic. “Yeah—I see what you mean. Failing to spot a potential serial killer in the making would look _amazingly_ bad for the department. But then again—the Mayor _is_ a really good weekend golf partner for the captain.”

Seungcheol looks to be supressing a grin. “Truly a Sophie’s choice.”

Jihoon watches in amusement as the Captain’s face changes from irritated to thoughtful. He can see the struggle going on behind the dark eyes. “Do you really think this could be the work of a serial killer?” he says, looking pained.

“Are you gonna put us on the case or not?” Seungcheol drawls, then adds—“Sir”—as a polite afterthought.

Namjoon’s face softens, and Jihoon knows they’ve got him.

“Alright. I’ll bite. But I want regular updates on this.” Namjoon concedes, and Jihoon makes sure not to smile too broadly as they leave his office.

If Jihoon were being entirely honest with himself, he would admit that he wouldn’t have handled that confrontation as well as Seungcheol.

He appreciates Seungcheol facing that with him, having his back; for the first time, Seungcheol wasn’t the one needling him and provoking a response, but the one picking up the slack and turning Jihoon’s fumbling excuse into an opportunity. For a moment, it almost felt like Seungcheol was on his side. And—okay—maybe he is. They _are_ partners after all.

Seungcheol’s still ridiculously unprofessional, of course, and he’s still making the requisite one flirtatious remark per minute, but it’s starting to seem less like he’s doing it specifically to irritate Jihoon and more like that’s just… what he does.

Jihoon thinks back on the past 12 hours to make sure he hasn’t suffered a head injury, but he can remember waking up and heading in to work, so whatever is going on in his brain must be organic.

* * *

 

When Jihoon drives Seungcheol home that night, he pulls up outside his house and switches off the engine. Seungcheol doesn’t jump right out, because neither of them seem to be in any rush to say goodbye.

They sit in silence for a while. There are the distant sirens that every city has, and the ebb and flow of traffic noises: stopping for lights, starting up again, the occasional squeal of tires.

Seungcheol can feel Jihoon's eyes on him, boring into him, like they're trying to cut Seungcheol up into manageable pieces.

“How do you do it?” Jihoon says finally.

“Do what?” Seungcheol asks, turning to face him.

Jihoon’s eyes are dark, watchful. “ _Charm_ everyone? I asked to be put on that case and I got shot down. You asked—practically _insulted_ your way into it and—here we are. The captain respects you.” His voice sounds amused, but he shoots Seungcheol a narrow look as if to suggest he may be complicit in that somehow.

Seungcheol thinks for a moment, fishing for a complimentary explanation he can latch onto.

“He respects you too, he just respects you in a different way. He respects you like a teacher that needs to hand you the rope bit by bit, he respects me like somebody he expects to pull the rope out of his hands and shove him to the ground.”

Seungcheol’s not entirely sure if that's a tactful way to phrase it. He doesn't want to make Jihoon sound like a social experiment, no matter how fascinating and impossible he is. But all Jihoon does is look at him from under his fringe, in a way that's considering.

Unfortunately, Jihoon's face doesn't actually help Seungcheol decide what Jihoon’s thinking. He feels like he should be apologizing, which kind of pisses him off, because he was trying to say something nice.

Eventually Jihoon says, “What’s the rope? Is it a metaphor for something?”

Seungcheol shrugs his shoulders. “I dunno—responsibility?”

Jihoon blinks very slowly, Seungcheol thinks he's disappointed him.

“Are you saying—the captain doesn’t think I can’t be trusted with more responsibility?”

His voice is so amazingly dry that Seungcheol's startled into laughter. “No! That’s not what I meant at all. The rope is like,” Seungcheol pauses, thinking it through. “Okay, forget the rope. Imagine the captain has a pie.” He says instead.

Catching a less than friendly look from Jihoon, Seungcheol hastens to continue:

“The pie is very big and he cuts you slices at a time because he doesn’t want you to get too full and get sick of pie. He tells me to help myself, because he knows I like pie and I’m going to sneak it away when he’s not looking.”

Jihoon narrows his eyes at that. “So, what you’re saying is the captain thinks you demonstrate better self-control?” He says, and there's a smile somewhere in the shadowed lower half of his face.

“What? Noo!” Seungcheol gapes. “Why are you turning my words into something negative?”

Jihoon has one eyebrow raised, dubious, amused. “You’re the one who’s making it negative with your shitty metaphors.”

Seungcheol’s a little offended by that. He was making a real effort with his metaphors.

“Okay fine. Not pie—Imagine me, you and the captain are stranded on a boat.”

“Oh my god, enough metaphors! Just tell me what you’re trying to say directly.” Jihoon says, and this time he's definitely smiling, Seungcheol catches it in the brief glow of a street light.

Seungcheol smiles back.

He’s lost count of how many times Jihoon’s _smiled_ at him today and—he never thought watching a guy smile could be so fucking rewarding. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it—but he’s gonna find out and do it all over again.

“Fine.” Seungcheol grunts agreement. “The captain approaches you like you approach your work. You follow the rules and stick to procedure and he admires that in you. He doesn’t want to use the same management tactics he does on _me_ cause he figures you wouldn’t appreciate the lax in decorum. I lack decorum so he gives me free reign. Whatever rules he sets I’ll probably break them anyway. That’s probably why he partnered us up. Cause we have different approaches, but we can find a good balance somewhere along the line. There—does that make sense? Or have I insulted you then too?”

Jihoon looks away then, but nods like he’s finally understood what Seungcheol was trying to say. Seungcheol's got the feeling everything they do is going to be this awkward push and pull of misunderstanding and enlightenment. 

“You’re right.” Jihoon says after a minute.

Seungcheol turns to look at him, pleasantly surprised. “Yeah?”

“You _do_ lack decorum.”

Seungcheol marvels for a moment at the way that Jihoon manages to hide this dry sense of humour from almost the entire world almost all of the time. Apparently Jihoon can see Seungcheol deconstructing him, because his cheeks go pink.

“I’ll pick you up bright and early tomorrow.” He says quietly, looking away.

“Alright—goodnight Jihoonie.” Seungcheol replies, opening the car door.

He’s got one foot out when Jihoon calls after him. “Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol, turns back a fraction, looking at Jihoon over his shoulder. “I appreciate you getting us on the case, but—I don’t need you sticking up for me.”

“I know you don’t,” Seungcheol says quickly, but it comes out sounding a little bit exasperated and a lot fond. “but I’ll do it regardless. We’re partners.”

Jihoon’s brow furrows, but he nods knowingly. He gets it.

Seungcheol knows Jihoon understands the value of a man’s word. It’s part of what will keep them together. Loyalty. Being able to depend on one another. Unconditionally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry it's taken so long to update. I am trying to return to a more reg update schedule for this.  
> 2) As I have mentioned before, this fic is slow burn. Whish is hard, hard for me. I want them to frick already, but no. Slow burn.  
> 3) When the slow burn ends though! OHHH MYY GOODDD!!  
> 4) Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!


	5. Interview techniques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The interview some people. Seungcheol is unprofessional. Jihoon gets a massage.

Jihoon has days when he wonders why he bothers to get out of bed in the morning.

He's absolutely just going to end up back there in a few hours, possibly a few minutes, and the bed will likely be one of those snazzy hospital ones with the reclining mattress and hot-and-cold running nurses and all because he agreed to let Seungcheol drive today.

 _That_ was a mistake.

He could feel the mistake when he handed Seungcheol the squad car keys.

He could see the mistake when Seungcheol grinned from ear to ear.

He could hear the mistake when Seungcheol turned the ignition and revved the engine.

He could taste…

Okay, he can’t _taste_ the mistake yet. But he probably will be tasting his own blood when he chokes on it after Seungcheol wraps the car around a fucking tree.

“Oh God!” Jihoon gasps, gripping the side of the door as they cut the next corner a little too close for comfort. 

Seungcheol glances across at him, apparently labouring under the delusion that actually watching where he's going while driving is something for the weak and uninitiated. He takes the next corner at a speed approaching warp and shakes his head, as if he knows exactly what Jihoon's thinking.

“You're not going to end up in the hospital,” Seungcheol says, and Jihoon thinks that's fucking  _great_. Not only is his partner ridiculously good-looking and scarily skilled, he can apparently read minds. And he's still looking at Jihoon, which would be a lot better if Seungcheol wasn't driving like his lifelong dream has been to break the land-speed record.

“Eyes on the road, eyes on the road!” Jihoon yelps, hanging onto the window frame, because they're currently  _hurtling_ —there's no other word for it—around a hairpin turn that has ocean on one side and a stream of traffic on the other.

There are about a hundred different ways to die in epic James-Bond-movie-style in Busan, and Seungcheol seems willing to risk all of them before Jihoon's even had a decent cup of coffee.

They’re not even chasing anyone. They’re just driving to a bar to hopefully interview some people who might know their latest victim: Oh Se-hun.

 _This_ is how Seungcheol drives when there is no present urgency or danger.

No wonder he’s totalled so many cars in his short time in the precinct.

It's too early to even articulate how terrifying Seungcheol’s driving is. He seems to have trouble remembering which side of the street he should be on, and from the way he reacts to stop signs, you would think they were randomly popping out of the sidewalks like silhouettes of criminals in a police training scenario.

The tires squeal around a corner, and Seungcheol is still staring expectantly at Jihoon, and sure, it's probably because Seungcheol was trained to drive in Daegu—where they probably learn manoeuvres with blindfolds on.

In the dark.

While being shot at.

But Jihoon would like to live to see the end of this case. He wants to have at least _one_ homicide case under his belt before he dies in a fiery crash.  

“When will this end!” he says without thinking, and it's possible Seungcheol's face goes a little more rigid, and his foot leadenly presses the accelerator to the floor. He’s trying his best to get them there faster now. That really wasn't what Jihoon had in mind.

Seungcheol takes the next corner with ever-increasing speed, and Jihoon closes his eyes for a second because, honestly, there's nothing that says he has to be brave in the face of certain death.

“Seungcheol—please!” Jihoon whimpers, attempting a complex hand wave that's meant to indicate, whatever happens, it's all Seungcheol’s fault.

“We're not going to die,” Seungcheol says matter-of-factly, although it sounds suspiciously like there's an eye-roll in there, and Jihoon pops an eye open to watch the blue-green blur of trees and ocean settling into something that's a step closer to an Impressionist painting and clearly on its way to becoming actual scenery with distinct images and everything.

By the time they judder into a parking spot across from the bar, Jihoon has one hand braced on the ceiling and the other in a white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

“Here’s the place.” Seungcheol announces, ratcheting up the parking brake.

“Oh—god.” Jihoon croaks. He opens the door and tumbles out onto the pavement, barely resisting the urge to kiss the ground. “You’re never driving again. _Never_.”

“Don’t be like that.” Seungcheol says from the other side of the car. “We made it here in one piece.”

Jihoon stands on unsteady legs and glares at Seungcheol over the car roof. “I am _never_ getting into the passenger seat of a car with you again.”

“What if I’m in the passenger seat as well?” Seungcheol raises a lascivious eyebrow.

Jihoon is still too close to his brush with death to give that remark the eyeroll it deserves. “Give me the keys. Right now.”

“You’re being dramatic.” Seungcheol huffs, but tosses Jihoon the keys regardless. He grabs a folder from the back seat before joining Jihoon at the curb.

They stand outside the bar, looking up at the unlit sign overhead—matching the sign to the logo on a packet of matches found on their latest victims body.

It was a lucky find. All the victim’s pockets were stripped clean, but the sleeve of matches was just thin enough to fold into the lining of the pocket and go unnoticed by whoever tossed them over the bridge.

“How do you wanna do this?” Seungcheol asks, turning to face him.

“Uhh—we go in there and we ask some questions?” Jihoon says slowly, like Seungcheol’s stupid for asking.

Seungcheol stands there studying him, as if Jihoon’s failed to say something important.

“Yeah, but—what’s our tactic going to be?” He asks.

Jihoon pinches the bridge of his nose. His temples are throbbing. “To get some answers.” He says firmly, pulling a face at him under his eyebrows.

“ _I know that Jihoon._ ” Seungcheol sulks, flicking the collar of his jacket up. “What I meant was—are we gonna rough them up? Or are we gonna wave some minor and inconvenient offences in their face?”

“Neither.” Jihoon waves a hand, cutting Seungcheol off with a noise of disbelief.  “We’re going to ask them when they last saw the victim and they’re going to tell us what they remember.”

Seungcheol’s face immediately crumples as he says it. Jihoon’s beginning to feel as if he just burst the balloon of a small child. “So, we’re not going to try our hand at a good cop—bad cop role play?”

“This isn’t an interrogation Cheol. They’re _witnesses_. We’re not trying to get them to confess to anything. We just want a blow by blow account of their last interaction with our victim.”

Seungcheol sighs expansively.

He doesn't wait for Jihoon to make another comment, but strides purposefully towards the door of the pub, pulling it open, and disappearing into the unnaturally dark interior.

* * *

 

The inside of the pub is darker than the outside. Jihoon resists the urge to pinch his nose the moment they enter; the bar reeks of smoke and piss. It’s still open, still serving even though it’s practically morning and mostly deserted but for the occasional grimy, listless drinker.

Jihoon tries not to _touch_ anything, or wander anywhere where he might be _touched_ by anything. He feels like he needs a tetanus shot from just _standing_ on the damp carpet.  

There’s a barman at the far side of the room, propped against the counter, arms crossed aggressively, or perhaps defensively with the same faraway, unblinking stare as the rest of the occupants. A stare which now seems to be focused on _them_.

Jihoon's a little afraid that at any moment one of them will point at them and start screaming, like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

Jihoon can already tell he isn’t going to like this.

He doesn't think many strangers come here—at least not many strangers who don't immediately turn around and leave, before the occupants burns them in some sort of giant effigy?

He is selfishly, unapologetically glad Seungcheol is here with him.

Maybe _Seungcheol_ can get sacrificed first.

“Talk about a friendly welcome.” Jihoon whispers out of the side of mouth.

“I get the feeling this isn’t a law enforcement friendly bar.” Seungcheol muses in a similar tone, his eyes sweeping over the people around them. He chuckles, “Kinda reminds me of the ending of Invasion of the-“

“Body snatchers!” Jihoon finishes for him in a surprised hiss. “Holy shit, I was just thinking that.” He says, sharing a pleased grin with Seungcheol.

 “Alright. Follow my lead.” Seungcheol says, squaring his shoulders. He strides forward and leans on the bar, as if he doesn't care what might be slathered all over it. Which, considering where they are, Jihoon doesn't even want to contemplate.

“You Jin-ho?” Seungcheol asks the barman.

The barman’s eye twitches, mouth suddenly thinning out “Who’s asking?”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes minutely, then flashes his police badge with more enjoyment than he has any right to.

“I got nothing to say.” The barman says without preamble.

“You don’t even know what we were going to ask yet.” Jihoon says, trying to reason with him, but is met with a sharp shake of the man’s head.

“Doesn’t matter—I didn’t see nuffin.” The barman supplies, tone flat like he doesn't care at all. He grabs the cloth over his shoulder and starts wiping down the bar top, refusing to look directly at either of them since Seungcheol flashed his badge.

“You _didn’t_ see _nothing_?” Jihoon echoes, watching anxiously as Seungcheol’s fingers curl into fists in a rather murderous manner. “That’s a double negative, which means you _did_ see _something_. Unless you meant to say I didn’t see something—which is it?”

The barman frowns, and continues frowning. After a moment he picks up a glass, and a cloth, and mechanically rubs them together in a way that's guaranteed to never make anything cleaner.

Jihoon sighs, mouth twisted in frustration.  “Look. Whatever you’re being extra defensive about—probably isn’t the reason why we’re here. We just need information on this man. Have you seen him here?” He asks, placing a photograph of their latest victim down and sliding it across the bar.

“Nope.” The barman answers without a beat. He didn’t even bother looking at the photo.

“Take a proper look.” Seungcheol says in his _I'm-only-going-to-ask-politely-once_ voice.

The barman flicks his eyes lazily over the photo and shrugs. “Don’t recognise him.”

“Maybe you’ll recognise him better from this picture,” Seungcheol postures, waving the pathologist’s post mortem photograph of their grotesquely bloated victim under the guys nose. He puts both photos side by side and taps a finger against it.

The barman is no longer polishing his glass. There's a dazed, sickly sort of focus to him now. The shape of him larger somehow, no longer slouching but stiff where he stands behind the bar **.**

“Recognise him now? Where he’s all blue in the face after having four gallons of river water pumped out of his lungs?” Seungcheol asks, quirking a brow.

On anyone else, that tactic might be considered unprofessional and threatening. But, Seungcheol—Jihoon doesn’t even know how he does it—he makes shit like that look totally acceptable.

“What happened?” The barman asks after a long moment of staring at the photograph.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol can’t resist a smile. “So—you _do_ recognise him then?”

“I might have seen him around.” The barman shrugs, going back to his glass polishing. His voice is slowly losing its edge, sounding tired and harassed, instead of biting and angry. Jihoon thinks that’s a good sign.

Jihoon clears his throat, pulls out another photograph tucked in between the pages of his notebook. It’s a photograph of a dampened packet of matches with the Bar’s logo on the front. He sets the photograph down and slides it across the counter.

“We found that packet of matches on him. The only identifying piece of information actually, which suggests that this was possibly the last place he had been before he took a swim.” Jihoon explains, and the barman’s brow furrows in consternation.

“We’re just trying to build a timeline of his movements now—so any information you can offer might work more in your favour than you think.” Seungcheol says. His eyes drift sideways to find Jihoon’s. “Unless, of course— _you_ killed him.” He adds.

The barman glares at Seungcheol, then sighs out a breath and glances at Jihoon pointedly.

“Look. He used to be a regular here—but hasn’t been over in a while. Figured he just found another hole to drink in. It happens. That’s all I’m telling you!” He snipes, then drops his voice to a lower register, making sure it doesn't carry. “It’s not good for business for me to be seen talking to cops.”

“Oh, well then, maybe we should all take a trip down to the station.” Seungcheol leans forward, a hair away from invading the barman’s personal space. The barman stays exactly where he is. The way his grip tightens around the glass in his hand is obvious, though Seungcheol doesn't seem fazed at all. He ignores the curling of the man's fingers to get right up close.

“Maybe it’s be _better for business_ if we drag you out here in cuffs? Maybe answering our questions  in a room with a two-way mirror will help convince your patrons how _loyal_ you are?” Seungcheol says with an air of authority, even though they’ve absolutely no grounds to do that.

The man gives Seungcheol a withering look, but ultimately sighs. “Fine.” the man grumbles, rubbing his wrist in anger, or maybe anxiety. “He used to be a regular here—then he stopped coming by suddenly. He came by last week to close his tab here— _that’s it._ I didn’t seem him talk to anyone and you won’t find anybody here who had a grudge against him.”

Jihoon nods and makes a few brief notes in his notebook. The barman looks around the bar anxiously, before dropping his voice to a low murmur. “I can’t say the same for the owner of the Deli he used to work at. It’s just down the block and I saw him arguing with the guy maybe three—four weeks ago. It was a huge bust up—I could hear the shouting from here and the guy had to be dragged out he got so worked up. But that’s it. That’s all I know. Now—can you get out before I lose all my customers.”

“Thank you for your time.” Jihoon says, mustering every ounce of professional patience he can.

* * *

 

“Was that necessary?” Jihoon hisses as they exit the bar.

“What?”

Jihoon eyeballs Seungcheol for a moment, “The inappropriate use of the autopsy picture, the _‘I’ll haul your ass in if you don’t answer my questions’_ approach. This isn’t a fucking movie Seungcheol, we can’t go around threatening witnesses like we won’t get dragged for it later. It’s called witness intimidation. Not to mention, we would have had no grounds to bring him in. His lawyer would have had him released before we could get a word out.”

Seungcheol gives an irritated headshake, as if Jihoon's worrying about unimportant things again. He obviously doesn't think ‘ _coercion’_ is a problem.

"I had a bad feeling about him—okay. And it was taking forever, this part  _always_ takes forever. You need to make them react—catch them out. And the likes of him, just the threat of holding him is enough. He doesn’t have to _know_ we couldn’t hold him without a charge. And it worked, didn’t it?" Seungcheol says.

His sleeves are rolled up, baring muscled forearms, and he has the most irritatingly pleased look on his face. Cheerful, almost, like he’s not looking for an argument, just stating a fact, and isn’t Jihoon adorably neurotic for getting so worked up over it.

To be fair, he’s had that exact effect on Jihoon in the past, but Jihoon likes to believe he’s learned a thing or two about not taking the bait since then.

 “I’ll be the one asking the questions next.” he mutters, not about to waste his breath getting into a debate on questioning techniques with a man who clearly has no method at all.

 “Fine with me.”

* * *

 

The Deli owner is a little more forthcoming with information. He doesn’t seem bothered to hear of murder, and flashes them a relaxed smile when they show him an old police mugshot of the victim.

“Ahh—Sehun. Yeah, he worked here.” The Deli owner answers, examining the photograph. “Till I fired him—a month ago.”

“Why was that?”

A rough, heavy noise of disgust follows the question. “Let’s just say—he didn’t comply with our new employee vetting criteria.”

Jihoon looks at him quizzically for a few seconds before understanding dawns.  “You mean his criminal record?”

“Yup.” The man agrees quickly, letting out a little nervous laugh, “He didn’t disclose it when I interviewed him, so when he came up in his background check—I had to let him go.”

Jihoon nods in understanding. Sehun had a weighty file.

Drunk and disorderly, drug possession, assault, public intoxication, two DUI's in the past three years, to name a few.

“Bet he didn’t appreciate that.” Seungcheol butts in inquisitively.

“He did not. Spun the usual shit—how he was _turning his life around._ Getting clean. Needed this job to _‘stay in line’_. He begged me to reconsider, told me he needed to keep up with his child support payments—but he never mentioned having a kid before that. Guess he was desperate, even had his addiction counsellor call me to persuade me to change my mind. Got aggressive when I asked him to leave—had to be dragged out in the end he was kicking up such a fuss.” The man shrugs, a humourless smile on his lips. “I’m trying to run a business here—need people I can trust. Not addicts.”

Jihoon, in the middle of making some notes, pauses, “You said—an addiction counsellor got in contact with you?”

“Uh—yeah. Some psychologist or whatever.” The man says, waving a hand dismissively. “Trying to vouch for his _good character_.”

Jihoon can feel the air quotes in that sentence.

“So, he _was_ trying to get clean.” Jihoon muses.

“Yeah— _clean_.” The man laughs. He exchanges an amused glance with another one of his employees and mimes taking a drink. “More like substituting one demon for another.”

Jihoon watches the exchange with narrowed eyes and sighs heavily. “You wouldn’t happen to remember who that addiction counsellor was?”

The man scratches the back of his head, blinking. “Uhh—I _might_. The guy gave me his card when he dropped by. Still might be in my office.” The owner say, disappearing out the back of the shop.

Seungcheol turns to look at him then, expression curious. “Why the addiction counsellor?”

Jihoon meets Seungcheol's enquiring eyes and shrugs. “People open up in therapy sessions. Maybe he revealed more confidential info during counselling we could use to establish who he was. His criminal record hasn’t exactly been helpful.”

“Wouldn’t all that information be—strictly confidential?” Seungcheol answers with audible bemusement.

“Sure. Not going to do him much good now though, that he’s _dead.”_ Jihoon doesn't mean to be so flippant, he really doesn't. But Seungcheol offers him an impressed eyebrow.

The Deli owner returns then, waving a business card at them. “Here it is— _Park Si-hoo.”_ He says, reading the name out on the card as he hands it over.

“Great, thank you for your help.” Jihoon nods, accepting the card and tucking it into the fold in his book. He starts to turn towards the exit when out of the corner of his eye he sees Seungcheol approach the Deli owner.

“One more thing.” Seungcheol says, pulling out the autopsy photograph. “Look at this picture.”

The shop owner looks, then wheezes out a single breath. He looks like he might be sick and says as much. “Oh—god. I think I’m going to be sick.”

 _Shit. Just great._  One ungainly step forward, two huge pratfalls back.

“Pretty gross—huh?” Seungcheol says cheerfully, managing to pocket the photograph before Jihoon drags him out the shop.

“Thank you for your time.” Jihoon says tightly, with a glare that he sincerely hopes Seungcheol understands.

Jihoon hasn't thought of a way to phrase how completely and totally unnecessary that was yet. He's sure there are special adjectives for it, if he could just find them. He settles instead for glaring at the back of Seungcheol’s head as they walk back to the car.

“Why Seungcheol— _why_? What possessed you to do that?” Jihoon asks when they’re in the car again, shoving his notebook into his pocket with somewhat more force than necessary.

“I had a weird feeling about that guy, needed to clear the air. You can learn a lot about a person’s guilt from studying their first reaction.”

“Of course you can." Jihoon says stiffly. It’s all a very interesting concept—If one can push aside the absolute _bullshit_ of it all. "You're just making this up now aren't you?"

“No! I read it somewhere—in some criminal psychology case study.” Seungcheol reasons, adding a doubtful, “Hmm. Or was it from an episode of the Mentalist?”

Jihoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Give me the picture.” He orders, holding a hand out.

Seungcheol frowns at him. “What?”

“Give me the photograph. You’re not showing it to anyone else!” Jihoon huffs, snatching it out of Seungcheol’s grasp and folding it into his pocket.

Seungcheol’s pouting now, Jihoon can see it when he flicks his eyes sideways to check the angle of the sun. It’s late afternoon already and they have so much to get through without Seungcheol rocking the boat and being an unmitigated ass.

* * *

 

Counsellor Park Si-hoo is very busy man and currently unavailable, according to his receptionist. ‘I don’t care who you are’ and ‘Appointments necessary’—she insists as Seungcheol strolls coolly past her desk towards the door she’s guarding.

If counsellor Si-hoo is surprised to have the police barging into his office without knocking, he doesn’t show it. He rises slowly from behind his desk, one eyebrow quirked as he surveys them. He seems a thin man, watery and a bit weak, but his voice is firm when he primly says, “Do you have an appointment?”

“Do we need one?” Seungcheol says giving Si-hoo his most disarming grin. He does the smug badge flashing thing again, even though it’s most certainly Jihoon’s turn to do it. Jihoon hopes he gets to flash his badge at least once during their partnership.

Si-hoo’s whole body flinches. “Oh—sorry I didn’t realise. My receptionist was very vague about who you were. Please, come in.” He says with a tight smile, offering his hand.

"Thank you. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time—I appreciate you’re busy man," Jihoon says, shaking hands with him.

"Oh, I don't mind at all," Si-hoo says, his smile now showing teeth. He gestures to the two chairs in front of the desk, “How can I help Busan’s finest.” He says cordially, retaking his seat, a massive mahogany desk between them.

Jihoon graciously accepts the offer and sits, while Seungcheol remains standing, hunched and sharp by the wall, as if he's trying to contain himself, restrain himself, from _something_. Possibly flashing his badge again.

Jihoon withdraws the carefully folded slip of paper from his jacket pocket and hands it to Si-hoo. “Do you recognise this man—we’ve gathered he was one of your clients.”

Si-hoo coughs, fidgets with his glasses. “Yes. He is. Oh Sehun—attends my addiction clinic every Wednesday and Friday, if he can make it.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?” Jihoon asks, pocketing the photograph.

Counsellor Si-hoo blinks at him, like he hadn't heard the question. “Is he in trouble again?” the man asks instead, dividing a look between them. He sighs and slumps back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I’m not surprised. Sehun’s very well meaning, but seems to get himself into a tight spot regularly.”

“He’s in a really tight spot now.” Seungcheol says, reaching into his jacket and producing _another_ copy of the pathologists post mortem photograph, unfolding it with a devious grin.

Jesus Christ—he’s got more than one copy! Jihoon wants to drag him off and demand to know what the hell he’s doing, maybe throttle him a little, but regrettably he has more self-control than that.

“Seeing as he’s cooling in a body bag in the morgue.” Seungcheol finishes, holding the photograph up to Counsellor Si-hoo’s face.

" _Seungcheol_ ," Jihoon's voice comes out shocked. Some variation of 'stop' caught behind his teeth, just waiting. But he hasn't said it yet, because he’s distracted by counsellor Si-hoo's reaction.

The man is frowning at the photo, caution, and surprise and something else. It's something guarded, something that isn't right underneath the calm.

Seungcheol continues like he doesn't particularly care what reaction Si-hoo's having. “He was found face down in the Busan river, floating for the better part of one week before a homeless man found him. That’s why his eyes are missing—the fish ate them.”

The man blinks at the photo for a few seconds longer, then grimaces distastefully. “That’s shocking. Terrible news.” Si-hoo says, not sounding shocked or terrified at all.

Yet again, Jihoon left wandering why nobody cares that this man is dead?

“We were hoping you could give us some information on him. Perhaps he shared some information during his sessions we could use?” Jihoon ventures.

Si-hoo spreads a hand on the desk, taps his shoe on the floor and looks for all the world like he's re-ordering his thoughts.

“I don’t know what I can help you with. My only interactions with him were in group sessions—and he never really shared much. We encourage an open trust environment in your sessions, but he was always tight lipped about himself, his home life. Insistent on getting help—but never revealed why. I recall him mentioning being in debt—with somebody.” Si-hoo says slowly, now sounding thoroughly as if actually speaking from memory. “It’s not unusual for addicts to have debt—but he was concerned about it. I’d venture to say—even fearful.”

“Of what?” Jihoon asks, ignoring the way he and Seungcheol basically say the words in unison.

Si-hoo’s mouth twists. Jihoon can tell he really doesn't want to answer that. “Listen—I don’t like to make assumptions, but Sehun wasn’t exactly in a position to be approved for a bank loan. Any debt he has or— _had_ ,” Si-hoo clears his throat, quietly “—was most likely of the _illegal_ variety.”

“Was he close with any of your other patients? Anyone in the session he may have confided in?” Jihoon asks quietly, pushing the conversation slowly but firmly in the right direction.

Si-hoo purses his lips thoughtfully, then shakes his head. “Nobody that springs to mind. Sadly, for most patients—the road to recovery is a _lonely_ one.”

“What the _hell_ was he lonely for? What’s the point of these group counselling sessions if your patients leave feeling lonely?” Seungcheol drawls, possible because Jihoon's too far away to kick him in the shins - not that Jihoon would do something so aggressively childish, but sometimes it's a nice thought.

Si-hoo raises an eyebrow at Seungcheol, but doesn't comment.

Jihoon gives his partner a quelling look, “What was he recovering from exactly?” He diverts with a more appropriate question. “His employer may have suggested he was _fond_ of drinking.”

Si-hoo releases a surprised cough of laughter at that. “Fond is a slight understatement.” He stops, frowns thoughtfully, he's clearly reaching for a way to explain. “Sehun’s parents were both heavy drinkers, and he was in and out of care for years as a result. He was practically a textbook case for inherited addiction, but it didn’t help that he had multiplex layers of repression. When he was first referred to our care, it had been after his arrest for drugs possession. Remarkably, he wasn’t referred because of the drug use at all—it was because of the alcohol dependency.  At twenty six, he was already suffering the effects of liver cirrhosis and because of his age, he had been considered for a transplant—but was ultimately removed from the waiting list.”

“Because he couldn’t stop drinking?” Jihoon hears Seungcheol ask from behind him.

Si-hoo wrinkles his nose, makes an odd shrugging motion. “Yes. He needed to prove he could stay alcohol free for at least one year to be reconsidered. He’d been doing so well, but when he failed to show up to the last two scheduled sessions—I thought he’d relapsed again.”

“Can you tell where you were on Tuesday night between 8 and midnight?” Seungcheol asks matter-of-factly.

Jihoon watches Si-hoo’s shoulders tense as the words and their suggestion register.

Si-hoo nods, it's clear he doesn't like to be asked but he nods. “Not off the top of my head. Let me check my schedule.”

He leans up to flip through a few pages on the journal sitting on the desk, brow creased. “Ah—oh yes. Tuesday 14th—how could I forget. I was a guest speaker at a conference in city hall.” He sounds distinctly more certain now.

“Got anyone who can verify that?” Seungcheol says, staring Si-hoo down in a manner that borders on hostile, and Jihoon pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, wondering how this can be his life.

Si-hoo looks a little overwhelmed for a moment.  “Ah, nobody by name personally. But there were over a hundred people at the conference listening to my theory on addiction behaviours. I’m sure one of them could vouch for me, unless they fell asleep. I don’t blame them—I do go off in tangents.” He laughs.

“We’re going to need any notes you have on him, medical records—counselling notes.” Seungcheol says, crossing his arms.

Si-hoo simply smiles at him, in a way that makes Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. Jihoon can see the quiet clench of his teeth.

“Of course. I’ll have my assistant package them up right away.” Si-hoo says, pressing his hands together, fingers touching his chin. 

“Uh, thank you for your time—we may be in touch again.” Jihoon says with studied politeness, nodding at Si-hoo. “In the mean time—if you remember anything else—please contact us.” He says, offering the man a card with a direct line number.

Si-hoo accepts the card with a silent nod. He seems genial enough, but he stares at them as Jihoon stands and follows Seungcheol out of the office.

Jihoon gets the distinct impression that he continues staring at them after they leave.

 

* * *

 

“Seungcheol—what the fuck? Photocopies? _Seriously_? And didn’t I say I’d be asking questions?” Jihoon says, through a frown that's as disapproving as he can make it.

Seungcheol’s silence sounds offended, though he doesn't say anything for almost a minute staring out the window.

“What did you think of that guy’s reaction?” He asks finally. He seems to think that’s the important part.

“What reaction?” It’s a good thing traffic is light because Jihoon keeps darting irritated and distracted glances in Seungcheol's direction.

Seungcheol jaw juts out, eyes dark in the late afternoon sun. “To the _picture_.” He clarifies.

Jihoon presses his lips tightly together for a moment. “I don’t know. Surprised— _shocked_. A normal reaction to a dead body being waved under your nose.”

“Hmm. No. He seemed to handle the picture pretty well, I thought. In fact, he seemed _more_ shocked that the police were paying him a visit than anything else.”

Jihoon grunts because, yeah, he's pretty sure Seungcheol has a point. Though he's damned if he's agreeing to it anytime this century.

“Kind of a strange reaction—don’t you think—to finding out one of your patients has died tragically.” Seungcheol says, slowly, purposefully, as if that matters in some way.

“He’s an addiction counsellor Seungcheol—a level head is part and parcel of his job. And our victim probably isn’t the first patient of his to wind up dead. He’s counselling troubled people with serious addiction issues—it’s normal for him.”

“Maybe. But—I got a bad feeling about him.” Seungcheol counters, confident how well he knows people and that pisses Jihoon more than anything.

“You’ve said that about everyone today!” Jihoon yells.

It’s logical Seungcheol is a bit of a suspicious bastard. It comes with the territory. But most cops don't suspect every single person they talk to! At this point of the investigation they can't afford to make assumptions without hard evidence. So far, Seungcheol has no reason to believe anything strange is going on with the counsellor.

Seungcheol seems to shrink inward a little at Jihoon's vehemence, turning to pout out the window.

“Seriously—if you can’t maintain a professional level of sensitivity, let me do the talking.” Jihoon says calmly. He suspects this is an argument they're going to be having more than once.

 

* * *

 

The question and answer segment of the day has officially come to an end, seeing as Seungcheol is having a hard time letting go of his suspicions regarding absolutely _everybody_ they question.

It’s probably not wise to interview anymore people while Seungcheol is still harbouring the urge to flash grotesque autopsy photographs like some proud parent showing of their new born child.

On the way back to the station they detour to Sehun’s residence, the address of which they locate from his employee file as absolutely everything else they know about the man from his criminal record seems to be falsified.

It’s an insanely tiny studio apartment located in the worst part of town. It’s the last door at the end of a dark corridor, trashed and empty, with graffiti smeared across the walls and dried syringes lying crushed underneath their feet.

When the building’s Superintendent opens the door for them, they find the place a total wreck even though there is no sign of forced entry.

_Maybe the guy just lived like this?_

Jihoon immediately starts in the bedroom area, checking the bedside table, under the bed and in the wardrobe, emptying the bathroom cabinets while Seungcheol works through the living area and kitchen, rifling through drawers and cupboards.

Jihoon finds a first aid box stuffed full of old blister packs of prescription medicines. He tips it out onto the kitchen counter, rummaging through it for anything with sedative properties that _may_ have been utilised to knock Sehun out the night of his death. Except for a few over the counter sleeping pills that hardly qualify, there’s nothing but assorted bandages and a few incomplete antibiotic courses.

As he’s fingering around the window ledge for loose bricks, he notices the dusty picture frame on the bedside table. The glass is cracked at the corners but it doesn’t obscure the photograph inside, namely their victim carrying a small girl on his shoulders.  

The frame is old, but the photograph is still crisp, vivid and undamaged; it can’t have been taken that long ago. Sehun looks happy here, smiling alongside the child. The Sehun in their latest mugshot is an older man, tired-looking and gaunt-faced, hollowed out like the inside of a squeezed juice box.

“This must be the guy’s kid, the one the deli owner mentioned.” Jihoon says aloud, twisting the frame around for Seungcheol to see.

Seungcheol, who is rummaging through the clutter on the breakfast bar, glances back and squints at the photo.

“Must be—hey, look at these.” He prompts, tapping a thick stack of open letters sitting on the kitchen table. He begins to tear through them one by one, separating them into haphazard piles.

“They’re all dated within the last month; overdue bills, repossession warnings, outstanding lawyer fees— _notice of a court hearing._ ” Seungcheol says with an eyebrow waggle, ripping open another envelope and waving the red-letter head of a court summons at Jihoon.

Jihoon places the photograph down again, moves to look over Seungcheol’s shoulder at the letter.

****

“He didn’t show—” Seungcheol says, holding up a later dated letter. “It says here a temporary restraining order was put in place despite Sehun’s failure to appear in court, and his request for visitation rights was _denied_. Bummer.”

Jihoon takes a minute to let that go through his head, about what it means. “So, he loses visitation rights to his kid because of his drinking. He couldn’t keep up with his child support payments, then he lost his job and had a restraining order filed against him by his ex. All in the same month.”

Seungcheol takes a step towards the sink and shakes his head. “No wonder he started drinking again. Look at this haul.” He says dryly, tipping up a cardboard box filled to the top with empty whiskey and vodka bottles. “He could open his own fucking bar with this. _Jesus_.”

“Losing access to his kid was the final straw I guess. That’s why he was trying to get help—but then he lost his job and everything spiralled out of control again.”

Seungcheol who is engrossed, or is pretending to be engrossed, in a crumpled note of dubious origin, glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. But— _how_ does he end up under a bridge with rope burns around his neck?”

Jihoon rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. This guy had every reason to end it all, but he didn’t. Yeah—he lapsed, but there wasn’t just alcohol in his system—there was something else. He was drugged, physically incapable of hanging himself in that state. If the tox screen is correct—he wouldn’t even have had the ability to walk let alone fashion a knot, climb over the safety barrier and heave himself off.”

Jihoon offers up a frustrated little frown. Everything they find just works to make everything more confusing. Trying to pick up clues about somebody’s life from their things—It's hard. Harder than it should be.

“Why would anyone target this guy? He had _nothing_.” He asks out loud.

“People have killed for less than nothing.” Seungcheol says bluntly.

There's a stillness in the room now, like the words have changed everything.

Jihoon feels a distinct sinking sensation in his stomach. “Maybe that’s just it. He’s an easy target. Nobody would notice him missing, hell—nobody has even come forward to claim the body. It’s sad.”

There’s a sleepy “hmph” from the Seungcheol, but that’s all.

Two crime scene techs arrive behind them to complete a more thorough sweep, and Jihoon weighs his options before reluctantly standing aside. “Let’s bag the letters and the medicines—but I don’t there’s anything else useful here.”

* * *

 

Jihoon rubs at his eyes and sips the lukewarm coffee he’d made. Seungcheol and him have a briefing with Namjoon in twenty minutes and he still has another two files to go through and no clear idea of his next move.

He’d seen the bulletin go out about their latest victim, asking for witnesses to come forward to help build a case. Namjoon is doing a general briefing right now, but Jihoon is expected to come up with something definite, something more specific, and he is pretty damn sure nothing will look concrete until they have identified and researched at least _another_ two victims.

“Hey—check this out.” Seungcheol snaps his fingers at him from across the desk.

When Jihoon looks up from notes he is studying Seungcheol is sitting back in his chair, toying absently at his lower lip as he squints at his computer screen.

“I asked the intern to do a search of missing persons case for the city and we got over 1000 hits. So, then we narrowed the search to rural locations along the outskirts, and set filters for sex, age and hospitalisations for alcohol or drug use—and look what just came up.” Seungcheol says, turning the  computer screen until Jihoon can see.

There’s a high school graduation picture on the screen of a young man.

Jihoon leans forward in his chair and frowns hard. Even though the picture is approximately seven years old, he recognises the man as one of their as yet unidentified victims from the photographs pinned on the bulletin board.  

He rifles through his desk for a more recent photograph of the man the site identifies as ‘ _Kim Youngjae’_ , and holds it up against the screen to compare.

“That’s—that’s one of our victims.” He gasps. He doesn't actually intend to make that sound quite so _pleased_ , but hey—one less ‘ _unknown’_ to deal with.

‘ _Youngjae’_ looks older in his autopsy photo. That’s to be expected—but the age estimation completed during the post mortem was a good decade out, recording his age as 34 years old instead of the websites stated 24.

Jihoon needs to focus to pinpoint the similarities between the two pictures, but it’s defiantly the same guy. ‘ _Youngjae’s’_ youthful lankiness has become an adult ranginess, but his hair, black and lank against his forehead, and his eyes, are the same as the website picture.

 “It’s a private site.” Seungcheol’s voice gently nudges him out of his thoughts. “Set up by his parents— _three years ago.”_

“Three years ago?” Jihoon asks, blinking. “But, he only showed up dead last month. Nobody’s come forward to identify or claim the body.”

Seungcheol tips his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “Well—we didn’t have a name to release at the time—he didn’t have a criminal record. They probably don’t know.”

“We need to tell them.” Jihoon says. He checks his watch. “Shit. We have a briefing with the captain in ten minutes.”

“Guess it’ll have to wait.” Seungcheol grins, pushing his seat back. “I’m sure the captain will agree that breaking the news to the victim’s family is more important than some update that can wait till later.” He adds, standing and grabbing his jacket, tugging it on.

Jihoon bundles his notes together and scrambles after him, quickly moving to step in front and place halting hand pressed flat against Seungcheol’s chest. “Seungcheol—this has to be handled sensitively. Don’t even think about flashing that picture at them.

Seungcheol's face creases in a frown, something to it makes Jihoon think he's offended that Jihoon thinks so little of him. Which - considering which one of them just spent all day flashing autopsy photos at innocent bystanders - Jihoon decides is a completely fair statement.

Seungcheol blinks at him “I’m not heartless, Jihoon.” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “I can be tactful too. Besides, how would they know our other victim? What would we gain from that?”

Jihoon throws his hands up. “What did we gain from you flashing that photograph at anyone today?”

Seungcheol’s face creases harder. “I was studying their first reactions. I thought it was a good technique. I was trying to contribute.” He stands there, his stance relaxed, his expression open and somehow sad, like he doesn't expect Jihoon to give him the benefit of the doubt but is willing to accept his judgement anyway. It makes Jihoon's chest ache.

Jihoon closes his eyes and presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"Goddamnit, Cheol," he finally says without any heat, letting his arm fall back to his side. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

 

* * *

 

“Mr Kim?” Jihoon asks when an older man answers the door.

The man straightens up, gaze darting between them. “That’s right. Hello.”

“I’m Officer Jihoon and this is my partner Officer Seungcheol, we were hoping to speak to you about your son.” Jihoon says.

Fuck! He forgot to flash his badge and, dammit, Seungcheol just beat him to it.

“Oh, I see.” Mr Kim says.

He's pale now, and Jihoon can see the blue veins engorged in his paper thin throat. Mr Kim tries to swallow twice, finally manages it. When he speaks his throat crackles over the words. He looks oddly smaller now. “Yes. Come in, please.”

Mr Kim lets them in without even glancing at their badges. He barely even looks at their faces. It's almost like he's gone past worried and angry and all the way into the grim acceptance that he's not going to see his son again. At least not alive.

He doesn't ask what they want; he just drifts towards the couch, waving an arm for them to sit, before settling into the chair across from them and next to his wife.

“He’s dead, isn’t he.” Mrs Kim says immediately, her expression grim.

Jihoon wasn’t expecting that straight off the bat, and his reply is awkward and faltering. “Ah—well, I--”

“Yes.” Seungcheol interjects plainly.  

For the second time today—Jihoon’s relieved he’s here with him.

The Kim’s both seem strangely at _peace_ by the revelation. Mr Kim turns to stare out the window while Mrs Kim shuts her eyes. It’s difficult to say if sorrow or relief is her predominant emotion; both seem to be warring for position on her face.

“We’re very sorry.” Jihoon says, because he feels like he _should_. Usually this kind of news requires it, but it has no apparent effect on either of Youngjae’s parents.

“We knew it was a big possibility.” Mrs Kim says, strangely flat. “We tried not to lose hope, but we hadn’t seen him in so long.”

Jihoon clears his throat. “Mrs Kim. Youngjae’s body was only found last month in the city, but you filed a missing persons report three years ago. Why did you think he was missing?”

Mrs Kim nods, slowly, like she was expecting exactly that question. But her expression pinches in, and it's easy enough to see that she still doesn't want to go over it again. As if one more time might kill her.

She inhales, trying to pull in enough air to speak.

“Youngjae used to live here with us. We had an argument one day and—he left. He didn’t pack a bag, so we expected him to be back in a week or so because it wasn’t the first time he up and left before, so we weren’t worried. But then a month passed with no return, no word and nobody he used to be friendly with in town could tell us where he was either.” She explains.

Mr Kim continues to stare into space.

“What was the argument about?” Jihoon’s almost afraid to ask.

“His drinking. Always his drinking.” Mrs Kim sighs. Jihoon can see the frustration, the sense of powerlessness in every crease on her brow.

She pulls his hands into her lap, twists them together. “Youngjae had a very addictive personality. Abused anything he could get his hands on. It started in his last two years in high school, got worse when he went off to college and out of our reach. When he dropped out and came home, he was in a terrible state. We admitted him to hospital, paid for his care. We were trying to get help for him for years and he had counselling sessions on and off, the best money could buy. Things would look bright for a while, before he spiralled out of control again.”

“It was my fault. I told him to leave.” Mr Kim finally speaks up. It’s the most Mr Kim has spoken of the whole affair since they arrived, and it sounds stiff, awkwardness layered over sincerity.

“I was angry and frustrated after I found out he was trying to sell our car without telling us. He _begged_ me for money, told me he was in debt with bad people—but I didn’t listen. I just had enough of his lies. But then—when he disappeared, I thought—maybe he really was in debt. And whoever he was indebted to perhaps caught up with him..” Mr Kim trails off, turning to stare out the window. He can't seem to speak any more.

Jihoon's a little wary of asking any more questions. He's very certain it's not something the Kim’s enjoy remembering. Though they’ve not refused to answer any of the questions Jihoon has asked so far.

“Thank you for speaking with us. I think we’ve gotten enough information for today.” Jihoon says, ending the interview. He reaches into his jacket to find the undertakers 'body retrieval card'.

“Youngjae’s death is part of an open investigation at the moment, so we won’t be able to release the body quite yet. But when we do, you can contact-“

“We already had a funeral.” Mr Kim interjects, shaking his head. “We don’t want to go through that again.”

Jihoon pockets the card again, and nods.

* * *

 

Now with an actual name and correct date of birth, they’re able to get a last address for ‘Kim Youngjae’ —a rundown apartment block near the docks, just a twenty-minute walk away from where his body was found.

He’s been missing for over a month, failing to pay rent for even longer apparently, so whatever’s left of his apartment is packed away in a few mouldy storage boxes in the basement.

It’s mostly junk: a threadbare wardrobe, worn shoes, tangled phone chargers, keyrings, pens without lids and chewed ends, receipts and notes, and grocery lists.

The landlord explains he sold most of the furniture off to cover the outstanding bills, and even then it didn’t amount to much.

Jihoon appreciates there may be some sentimental value to some of the items for Mr and Mrs Kim—but for now what’s left is needed as evidence. It’s not much but it may provide some clues as to why somebody hung the guy off a bridge.

* * *

 

It's eight in the evening- eight _something_  in the evening, Jihoon last looked at his watch some point after they returned to the station. He's currently sitting at his desk going through the evidence from Kim Youngjae’s apartment. Seungcheol is being significantly more professional than earlier, but no less bored beside him, working through a box of damp paper they salvaged from the waterlogged basement.

It's hard to settle down with the stuff they took as evidence, to open the cases and bags, and search through the belongings of the people they’re investigating.

Jihoon tells himself that they’re dead, didn’t have much of a life to begin with and they don’t care about who rifles through their shit as long as they find their killer. But they were still  _people_ , and their stuff just makes it more obvious.

He’s halfway through a box and struggling with a supreme bitch of a headache that pills aren't touching, and trying to work with one eye shut stopped working an hour ago.

He looks up and catches Seungcheol watching him with an eyebrow raised.

"What?" he demands.

"You, you've had your face scrunched up like a Gremlin for like an hour now," Seungcheol says bluntly.

Jihoon scowls at him and tries to think of a response to that. But before he manages to come up with something appropriately scathing and witty, Seungcheol sighs and pushes his chair back, comes round the table.

Jihoon twists so he can follow him, squinting suspiciously. "What—what are you doing?"

Seungcheol points. "Just face the front."

Jihoon thinks about shaking his head but he's worried his entire brain might rebel, and possibly explode if he tries that much physical activity. "I don't like the idea of you standing behind me, I always think you're up to something."

Seungcheol pulls a face, that one that he thinks means ' _will you just trust me_ ' but is in actual fact, way too close to his ' _watch me drive this car off the side of a building_ ' face and possibly also his  _'I'm hungry_ ' face.

"Seriously Jihoonie, we’re partners. We should trust each other _implicitly_.” Seungcheol says, stepping behind him.

“You mean _explicitly_?” Jihoon corrects.

A hand settles on Jihoon’s shoulder, and he is suddenly very aware of Seungcheol's proximity. Warmth fills the narrow space between them, more pleasant than it has any right to be. “Explicit? _Really_. Well—that would _definitely_ be an interesting development to our partnership.” Seungcheol chuckles.

Jihoon can hear the eyebrow waggle.

“That word doesn’t only mean what you think it does!” He snipes over his shoulder.

 _“Whatever you say Cupcake_.” Seungcheol drawls. The words are pitched low, Seungcheol leaning in close behind him to murmur directly in his ear.

Jihoon tries to spin and face Seungcheol—scowl him away, but Seungcheol just puts his hands on Jihoon's shoulders and twists him round in the chair again.

“No.” Jihoon's noise of protest is lost somewhere under the squeak of the chair.

Seungcheol's hands squeeze his shoulder gently, and Jihoon tries to ignore the way it amps him up and settles his nerves at the same time. 

Seungcheol’s voice is still low and private when he says, “Seriously—just _let_ me. What's with all the suspicion Jihoonie?"

Jihoon waves a hand at him. " _My_ suspicion - what, you'd be happy to have _you_ standing behind you, doing who knows what?"

Seungcheol doesn't say anything - which proves it's _true_.

"I'd be less worried if I knew what you were going to do." Jihoon huffs.

"Stop being so paranoid."

"Ha, really? With you that's like a necessary survival instinct," Jihoon tells him.

Seungcheol's shuffling around somewhere behind him now, and Jihoon has a far too clear mental image of exactly how many disturbing and horrible things he's capable of doing with his hands. His shoulders hunch despite his best efforts to stay loose.

“I’m going to help.” Seungcheol affirms. “I’m going to clear your headache.”

Jihoon lifts one of his own and finds a wrist. "What, you have magic powers now? The universe thought you weren't stupidly overloaded with special skills already?"

Seungcheol smacks his hand away, and none too gently. Which is really impolite considering Jihoon’s the one suffering here. Then Seungcheol tilts Jihoon's head back a little, before pressing his fingers against his temples. They're warmer than he's expecting.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm trying something, shut up." Seungcheol's grinning somewhere over his head, he can feel it.

" _You're trying something_ \- that fills me with so much confidence."

"And stop scowling," Seungcheol tells him.

Jihoon lets his forehead smooth out, though not because Seungcheol told him to.

Seungcheol's fingertips push in gently, then roll backwards, there's barely any pressure at all. But Jihoon can feel it all the way down into his skull.

And, yeah, it's definitely kind of weird.

Though it's also good.

Fuck, yes, ok, it's really good. The knife behind his eyes gradually stops digging in and twisting. It settles into something steadier, quieter. Even the hum of the artificial lights stops making him want to cut his own ears off.

"Awh man," Jihoon says. It comes out half slurred and half surprised.

Seungcheol grunts, some sort of agreement. Possibly there's smugness there too.

The fingers disappear briefly and then Seungcheol's fingers are tugging at the top button of his shirt.

"Why—why are you undressing me?" Jihoon asks. His voice comes out slurred and quiet and strangely lacking in any sort of disapproval at all.

“You realise you’re the only officer who buttons his shirt right to collar? It’s ridiculous. It makes your head look huge.” Seungcheol says, tugging at his tie.

Jihoon glares at him—which isn’t overly effective when Seungcheol is standing behind him.

Material slithers through his collar and suddenly Jihoon can feel the breeze from the air conditioning against the damp skin of his throat, and he refuses to admit how good that is. He does however— _moan_.

“Oh—fuck.”

He definitely notices when the fingers start pressing in again, moving up so they're almost in his hair, and his headache has officially gone - or at least retreated under the threat of Seungcheol. Which is the same thing.

And it's  _awesome_  and he's fully aware that he's making  _noises_. But he's damned if he can help it.  It’s just his luck that Seungcheol has the troublesome ability to make him stop thinking rationally, and someday Jihoon knows he’s going to learn just how perilous that is.

“That good?” Seungcheol murmurs, deep and husky in his ear.

Jihoon groans like he’s dying. “ _Yes_. You’re _amazing_.”

The fingers stop, briefly, and it's a pause which is weirdly indecisive for Seungcheol.

"Oh, God, Seungcheol. Please don't stop," Jihoon gasps.

There's an amused huff and the fingers are moving again, knuckles somewhere in his hair, pushing it all out of order.

It's completely and totally innocent -

Or y'know, not.

 _Explicit_ would probably be a good word choice right about now.

But it's Seungcheol, and Jihoon's learning that if you just go with it, it usually turns out ok.

“Ahem.” _Somebody_ clears their throat.

They both stop what they’re doing and look up to find Captain Namjoon standing at the foot of the table.

Jihoon blinks at Namjoon, who offers a raised eyebrow in his direction and something that someone, in some office, in a dark basement, might perhaps file under 'a smile.'

“Fellas—I’m happy to see you two getting closer, but I’m not sure the rest of the office appreciates the free sex show.” The captain says, looking between them with some interest.

Jihoon startles when he realises the entire office is looking straight at them, with super judging eyes. He tries to work out how to get Seungcheol's hands out of his hair in a way no one notices. Considering the company he's in—that's _probably_ impossible. 

“The sex show hasn’t even started yet Captain.” Seungcheol deadpans _inappropriately_.

Namjoon smirks and drops his eyes briefly, looks straight at Jihoon and yes, he's officially in that strange place between guilty and embarrassed that will haunt him for years.

Jihoon slaps Seungcheol’s hands away when he tries to continue with the massage. “Okay—thank you. Headache gone now. All better—you can stop.” He says firmly, mostly in panicked self-defence.

Seungcheol, as expected, isn’t bothered by the attention. In fact, he has a sly grin on his face as he retakes his seat, picking up a folder and flicking through it.  

Jihoon clears his throat and scans down the file in front of him. He only looks back up at Seungcheol when Namjoon disappears from the periphery of his vision.

“You just _love_ drawing attention to yourself—don’t you?” Jihoon hisses.

Seungcheol fails completely at looking innocent. “Hey. You were the one who was making the sex noises.” Seungcheol grins.

Jihoon only _just_ stops himself from throwing the cup of coffee in Seungcheol’s face. He doesn't want to have to charge himself with assaulting a police officer.

They get back to work, and for what seems like a tediously long time, Jihoon just stares at the same page and tries to reread notes from Sehun’s counselling sessions.

“Anything jumping out at you?” he finally ventures, lifting his head to look at Seungcheol. He’s momentarily taken aback when he finds Seungcheol already looking at him. Has been for some time it seems.

“Feels like I’m reading the same five sentences over and over.” Seungcheol admits, gaze unwavering.

“Okay. How about we recap?” Jihoon offers. But In lieu of actually reeling off what he’s found out, Jihoon thumbs at the spine of his notebook and voices the thoughts he’s been having about the case.

“All of our victims died of strangulation— _after_ being drugged with a sedative. So far, four of them have a rap sheet with drug possession charges, Kim Youngjae has no criminal background but a history of illicit drug use—so it’s safe to assume our final victim will too .” Jihoon says, and Seungcheol's nodding, so Jihoon assumes he's following this.

“With the exception of Kim Youngjae, nobody demonstrated any interest in coming forward and claiming the bodies of the other victims. These guys had their lives in shreds by the time they died. Whoever this is—they’re clearly targeting people they can get away with killing, people nobody will miss. Their murders aren’t even elaborate—they’re just clean and methodical killings.”

Seungcheol stares at him over the edge of his folder, gaze seemingly fixed on Jihoon’s hair. “What’s your point?”  He asks Jihoon’s hair.

“It’s just weird—for a serial killer.” Jihoon glances down at the notes he’d made from the files in front of him. “None of the showmanship that you would expect in a string of serial killings. No elaborate displays, no flourish. Isn’t that the point for them? Showing off.”

“Are you now suggesting it’s not a serial killing Jihoon?” Seungcheol says quietly, still looking at Jihoon’s hair, expression amused, and - not just amused, oh my God, kind of intrigued as well. “Cause I’m pretty sure the captain gave us this case because we gave him the impression it was.”

“I still think they’re linked okay—” Jihoon sighs, a strange sense of disappointment gnawing at his stomach. He thumbs through the paperwork some more, but like a runaway train, the explanation is becoming hard to bring to a full stop. “I just think this is weird. A serial killer’s main gratification comes from _somebody_ recognising their work, linking their victims together and uncovering what they’re trying to achieve. They don’t _want_ to stay hidden, undiscovered. They want the recognition that comes from creating a lasting legacy of deaths with a unique MO. These deaths—just don’t fit so far. They’re too basic.”

Seungcheol continues to stare at his hair for a long and rather worrying minute. Before he eventually nods. “Maybe they’re not finished yet, maybe they’re being deliberately careful with what they reveal with these deaths because they still have work to do and don’t want to get caught out early in the game.”

Jihoon waves a hand at him, dismissive.

“Then why target nobodies?” Jihoon says out loud, instantly regretting his word choice. “Why target people that have already sank so low they’re off everyone’s radar? Usually, a serial killer will select their victim based on some private grudge but something that will garner attention. Usually, with every death they reveal more of the why without actually revealing themselves. And there is still the question of why take a break for almost a decade after the first three deaths? What’s the reason for the gap?.”

“Okay—," Seungcheol shrugs, "Maybe they don’t _identify_ as a serial killer Jihoon. Could it be they just _think_ they’re doing a job, have some weird higher purpose and don’t fall into your serial killer cookie cutter template?”

Jihoon opens his eyes and stares. He knows his brain is tired but, amazingly, some of what Seungcheol had just said made _sense_.

“Huh.” Jihoon purses his lips, thinking that though. “Actually—I think you might have a point.

Seungcheol eyeballs him. Actually—he eyeball’s his _hair_. “Really?”

“Yes—I mean—serial killers always justify their actions with deluded logic. Maybe this guy just… **.stop staring at my hair!”** Jihoon yells, slamming a fist down on the table.

Seungcheol startles upright out of his seat with a laugh. “Sorry, it’s just—all over the place, from the massage.”

Jihoon pokes at his hair, trying to flatten it out. He’s probably making it worse—but he’s not vain enough to get up and look in a mirror.

Seungcheol very carefully shuts the folder he'd been pretending to read, gives Jihoon a head-to-toe-and-back-again once over that is a little too slow to be completely guileless. “I was just thinking—that must be what your hair looks like after you have mind blowing sex.”

Jihoon doesn’t blush.

He doesn’t. He _frowns_ in confusion.

That isn’t something colleagues usually talk to him about. They might try and shoot the shit with him about their paperwork load or a book they’ve read recently or even an angry cat they saw that reminded them of Jihoon, but they don't usually talk about his sex life. People don’t assume he’s out having sex. Or even that he’s at _home_ having sex.

Not because he doesn't—oh, he does ... _sometimes_ , and when he does it’s  _fantastic_ , he's been told, and more than once, thank you very much—but because people look at him and see “small” and “serious” and “ _scowl_ ” and in most people's minds none of those things equal “getting laid regularly.”

Yet, here’s Seungcheol grinning at him across the table and looking for all the world like he wants to reach over and ruffle his hair even more.

Maybe it’s a cop partner thing. Or possibly just a _Seungcheol_ thing.

“I haven’t been laid in ages.” Jihoon blurts out, and— _Oh dear god_. Why did he just say that?

Something flickers in Seungcheol’s eyes, there and gone in a flash.

“Oh, yeah?” Seungcheol says, sitting up straighter. “How come?”

He sounds matter-of-fact, which Jihoon privately appreciates, since he doesn’t think he could deal very graciously with Seungcheol laughing at him. Or worse—feeling _sorry_ for him.

Jihoon sighs, miserable, and he thinks he might be sulking—just a little.

“This job doesn’t exactly give you much free time to socialise—or opportunities to interact with people who want to date you.” Jihoon pouts.

“ _Oh_ —I wouldn’t be so sure about _that_.” Seungcheol intones picking through the pages of the topmost paper with an utter lack of enthusiasm. He seems gives up after a couple, and lets his hand drop. “How long a dry spell we talking about?”

Jihoon can't get into it without letting slip a whole lot of details he can't afford to share. He settles on the vague answer. “Long enough.” And because he’s obviously in the sharing and descriptive mood, “My balls feel like shrivelled up raisins.”

Seungcheol gives him a rueful smirk. “How interesting. You’ll have to tell me more about that.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Jihoon says sternly, belatedly realizing that he’s apparently regressed to preschool age.

Seungcheol spreads his hands and leans back, surrendering gracefully “Relax. _Geez_ —sorry. Forget I asked.”

He doesn’t mean to be so snappy, but the whole conversation brings back some pretty unwanted memories. He still has the last text message from his ex-boyfriend—Kihyun, sitting on his phone.

_Why won’t you answer me?_

_Why indeed—Jihoon scoffed when he read it first. Maybe it’s the memory of the look of horror on Kihyun's face when Jihoon suggested they move in together. Maybe it was the stupid grin he used to fix on his face when he introduced Jihoon as a ‘friend’. Maybe it’s because of the smug tone his voice held when Jihoon caught him in bed with another man. Maybe it’s because Jihoon’s decided the biggest asshole in his life should be him, not the man he’s with._

“Cupcake. Hey, you fallen asleep over there?”

Seungcheol snaps his fingers and the sound brings Jihoon back to the here and now. His head has dropped into his hands, and he can feel the heaviness in his eyelids. He's so close to the edge of sleep, it's almost painful to pull himself back.

“Sorry—it’s been a long day. I overshare when I’m tired.” Jihoon laments, dropping his head back into his hands.

Seungcheol breathes a noncommittal sound, “I don’t think _you_ of all people could be accused of oversharing Jihoon. We’ve been partnered for what—three months, and I only know three things about you for certain.”

“Three things?” Jihoon says, caught off-guard.

Seungcheol nods. “Yup. How you like your coffee; how you don’t like sharing and how you’re afraid of clowns.” Seungcheol counts them out on his fingers. Then raises a fourth, “Oh—and you haven’t been laid in a while. That’s four things now.”

“How’d you know I don’t like clowns?” Jihoon asks with a suspicious squint.

Seungcheol smirks. “One of the first times we went on patrol together. There was that street performer handing out balloons in the park—you couldn’t cross the road fast enough.”

Jihoon can’t be bothered to muster up the energy to argue with him on that point. He does hate clowns.

Who _doesn’t_ hate clowns?

Jihoon finishes the coffee that's on the table, swallows a mouthful of it. It's bitter and barely warm. “Lets call it a day. Maybe this will look different tomorrow.”

“Or…” Seungcheol trails off, quirking an eyebrow.

“Or?” Jihoon echoes, quirking one back.  He can see a glimmer of hopefulness on his partner's face as he leans in.

“Or, we could get a drink?” Seungcheol suggests. His voice sounds faintly hopeful, but his face seems resigned to something else.

Jihoon threads one arm through his jacket and gives him a hard look. “We just spent all day investigating two murders directly involved with alcohol—and you want to _drink_ to help unwind?”

For a good long while, Seungcheol just surveys him contemplatively. Jihoon stands perfectly still, not letting himself waver.

Then Seungcheol smiles, a self-deprecating quirk of his lips “You’ll use any excuse not to get a drink with me, huh. Do I annoy you that much?”

Jihoon shakes his head, looking away. “It’s not that. I just don’t _enjoy_ drinking.” He tugs his jacket into place and straightens up, probably looking every inch the uptight prig Seungcheol thinks he is. “I have a low tolerance, and it doesn’t take much for me to get drunk and make an ass….” He trails off half-hoping Seungcheol will fill in the rest, or at least give him a minute to figure out what he’s going to say.

“It doesn’t have to be a drink.” Seungcheol says, stepping closer. “Let’s get some food instead. _Anything_. I was just hoping to spend time with you that isn’t surrounded by dead bodies and paperwork.”

Jihoon blinks at him.

He hadn't even known that was a possibility.

He hadn't known that was something Seungcheol had _hoped_ for.

“Okay. I _guess_ I could eat.” Jihoon grumbles, sounding like he’s just volunteered to wash Seungcheol’s windows for the next month.

Seungcheol’s reaction on the other hand, is like Jihoon’s offered to orally pleasure him for the next month. And— _fuck_ —he really could have done without that mental image in his head.

“Really? Oh—god, this is so _awesome_.” Seungcheol beams, chair spinning wildly behind him with the speed he yanks his jacket off the back. “I know a really good Teppanyaki place. You’ll love it!” He says, herding Jihoon towards the exit.

He sounds so pleased with himself Jihoon doesn’t have time to hide his amusement.

* * *

 

Jihoon's not entirely sure how Seungcheol ever found the time to be acquainted with so many good places to eat in Busan when he’s not even lived here a year.

Seriously—Jihoon’s never heard of this place and he’s lived here his _whole life._

He doesn't have a clue how Seungcheol’s managed that level of discovery, in-between all the ridiculous heroics - or possibly  _while_  performing ridiculous heroics. But this place must be good, because it’s packed full of patrons with a queue going out the door.

And of course, Seungcheol gets to skip the line because everywhere they go, people recognise Seungcheol. Someone  _knows_  him. Either in a way that provokes gratitude, handshakes and free food, or vitriol, insults and suspicion.

No, Jihoon's the one that seems to surprise them.

There's always that double-take. That brief, stunned moment of confusion. As if the thought of Seungcheol showing up anywhere  _with_  someone, is in some way shocking. Currently the owner of the Japanese restaurant they're in is giving Jihoon a slow once over before leading them up the stairs to be seated.

Jihoon follows after Seungcheol, noting with amusement that Seungcheol is wearing jeans with an artful scuff across the ass. His leather jacket just brushes the edge of the distressed denim so Jihoon—anyone with eyes, for that matter—can’t help but notice. It can’t have been any worse if Seungcheol had worn a sign saying, "look at my ass."

The man knows he looks good, and he doesn’t seem to care who notices. Is shameless about it actually, although Jihoon isn’t hypocritical enough to complain about the view.

When they sit down, Seungcheol orders with great enthusiasm. Jihoon is a little more reserved, until the smell hits him and suddenly he’s equally as ravenous.

Jihoon watches their chef painstakingly fry his pancake to his exact specifications, golden and crispy and dripping with sweet teriyaki sauce, with two perfect gooey mochi rectangles at its heart. It looks amazing, smells even better when it lands on Jihoon’s plate. Jihoon dissects out a corner of it with his chopsticks while Seungcheol attacks his own dish like he's never heard of table manners.

Flashing autopsy photographs at unsuspecting witnesses is hungry business apparently.

“That looks _good_.” Seungcheol says when he finally lifts his face away from his plate long enough to speak.

Jihoon continues eating, tries not to let his reaction show on his face.

He knows better than to look up, because he _knows_ that tone.

That’s the hopeful tone of somebody who wants to try your dish, but doesn’t want to ask outright.

He also knows that if he makes eye contact in the next thirty seconds—he will have acknowledged that request, which makes refusing it _so_ much more awkward.

“Does—does it taste good?” Seungcheol asks, voice painfully hopeful.

Jihoon barely supresses a grimace; he really hates sharing food.

He chances a look at his partner, to find Seungcheol staring at his pancake with seriously wide eyes—like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen.

Jihoon feels an intense surge of fondness for his partner. He can be so adorably puppyish sometimes— And, _And_ —Jihoon shuts that train of thought  _right_  the fuck down.

“It _is_ good. It’s _amazing_ in fact. _Hmmmm_.” Jihoon says heartlessly, pulling at the crisp lacy edge of egg and cabbage and chicken to get at the dazzling white toffee-gum stretch of mochi. 

Seungcheol’s brows furrow, then slant upwards in the centre which is just fucking awesome.

Now he _officially_ looks like an overgrown, sad puppy.

Jihoon tries to ignore it, but the big round eyes and pouty mouth make Jihoon as gooey and soft inside as his mochi Okonomiyaki. He can’t eat in peace with sad puppy Seungcheol salivating across the way.

Jihoon sighs and prods at his food, before sighing heavily. “Would you—like to try some?”

Seungcheol sighs. “No—it’s okay. I know you don’t like to share food. It’s one of your _things_.” He says, holding up four fingers.

The statement ignites stubbornness beneath Jihoon's skin, and he straightens his shoulders. He pushes his plate awkwardly across the table. Then frowns, cause he's not entirely happy about it. “I’ll make an exception this time.”

“No.” Seungcheol says confusedly, then looks back at Jihoon. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

 **“** Please. I insist.” Jihoon says—in his flattest, least convincing voice.

Seungcheol breaks into a genuine grin. He leans over and wriggles a corner of the pancake off with his chopsticks before popping it into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck—that’s amazing.” Seungcheol groans, words punctuated by loud chewing sounds.

“Yes—that’s why **_I_** ordered it.” Jihoon says pointedly, though he doesn’t take the plate back.

Seungcheol at least shares his own dish in turn.  

“So—why did you want to be a cop?” Seungcheol asks, mouth half-full, now alternating between his own plate and Jihoon’s.

“I thought you said we _wouldn’t_ talk about work?” Jihoon drawls, not to avoid talking about work, but more because correcting Seungcheol is his _thing_ too.

“True.” Seungcheol says, pausing between bites. “Okay—what kind of underwear are you wearing?” He asks amusedly, arching an eyebrow at him.

Jihoon narrows his eyes to convey a ‘really? _Really_?’ look. It's not the question Jihoon's been expecting, but it's not really a surprise either.

“Hey—that’s not about work.” Seungcheol toasts Jihoon with the glass he's holding.

“It’s inappropriate though.” Jihoon scoffs, stealing a shrimp before Seungcheol demolishes the entire thing. “Why do you want to know anyway?”

“I’m curious. Are you a briefs man Jihoon? Please don’t be a briefs man.” Seungcheol says, dragging one of Jihoon’s other dishes within range of his chopsticks. Because he's apparently the type of person that has to try _everything_. “Old men in offices wear briefs. Not, young—manly virile men.”

Jihoon almost chokes on the extraneous use of the word _virile_. “I’m a boxer-briefs man.” He smiles, picking at his shrimp.

“Is that so?” Seungcheol grins. Jihoon tries not to tell if he sounds intrigued. “Best of both worlds, huh? Do they have little hearts on them?” Seungcheol asks. The eyebrow waggle makes him look a little deranged, but the low growl in his tone is having a different effect entirely. 

“ _No_.”

“Shame. Your choice of underwear says a lot about you as a person.” Seungcheol mumbles, the words nearly unintelligible over the sound of his chewing.

Jihoon tips his head thoughtfully. “I’m not big on patterns—but I like dark colours and the fabric has to be silk. My dick is very sensitive.” Jihoon says entirely too honestly, his momentary amusement making him careless.

Seungcheol grins from ear to fucking ear, and seems _far_ too pleased about that revelation. Pleased enough to stop eating for a minute—which is _amazing._

Jihoon realises he's waiting for the punch line, waiting for Seungcheol to tell him something he's discovered about him based on his underwear choices, something Jihoon doesn’t know about himself yet. Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, like he knows exactly what Jihoon's thinking and he's not going to be predictable for once. Which means he'll probably tell him later, at some more inappropriate time, probably in front of Captain Namjoon. Or some witness he’s trying to question or when Jihoon’s on the stand testifying against a criminal. 

Jihoon wonders if it's at all possible to make that  _not_  happen. Decides probably not.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—I don’t know how or why you make me share things I have no intention of sharing. You’re like some kind of hypnotising disease—that gives me verbal diarrhoea.” Jihoon mumbles.

Surprisingly, Seungcheol isn’t offended by any of that.

“Nah—you’re just tired cupcake.” Seungcheol shoots back, unbothered. “You just said you overshare when you’re tired. Why do you think I insisted on getting food instead of heading home—I’m going to milk your tiredness for all it’s worth, learn as much as I can about you while you’re in the sharing _mood_.”

Jihoon snorts, hailing the waiter for a refill. “As interrogation techniques go—that’s not a great one.”

Seungcheol pauses, chopsticks half way to his mouth. He grins, “You’re right. Maybe I should tie you down—role play bad cop, spank you a little, electrocute your nipples.” He says, the barest hint of impropriety in his tone.  

Jihoon’s mind goes totally and completely blank. It’s as if someone has taken a once full chalkboard and wiped it clean. He ducks his head, refusing to acknowledge the way his face is heating up.

Seungcheol's just yanking his chain, that's all. He’s being a complete dick and can’t resist pushing the envelope to see how Jihoon reacts.

But Seungcheol’s stopped eating—gaze still roaming over Jihoon in a way that makes him feel electrified, unbalanced; ignoring it isn't as easy as he would like.

Seungcheol’s attention is diverted momentarily by the arrival of their waiter, who refills their drinks and adds another round of dishes to the table.

“I’m not wearing any underwear.” Seungcheol says casually as he takes a sip, and then looks at Jihoon like that isn't in any way a strange thing to blurt out.

Jihoon can't say anything to that because he's currently  _choking on a shrimp._ Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at him, as if to politely inquire if he needs assistance. Jihoon manages to swallow and cough his way back to life, grabbing some water off the table and glaring at Seungcheol as he drinks.

He's joking - Jihoon thinks he's joking. “You cant be serious?”

Seungcheol crosses his arms and leans back. “I like the freedom.  Like to feel the wind circulate around my— _balls_. You should consider it too—you could do with freeing your balls cupcake.”

Jihoon glares at the waiter who chooses that  _exact_  moment to walk past.

" _God_ , shut up," Jihoon groans when the man has drifted off in a cloud of cheap aftershave and amusement. "Are you like—are you  _incapable_  of shutting up?"

"Clinically," Seungcheol laughs.

Setting down his chopsticks, he wipes his hand on a napkin before standing up and pulling down the waistband of his trousers just enough to reveal the hem of black boxers with tiny batman symbols on them.

Jihoon doesn't quite manage not to laugh at that. “Batman? Seriously?”

Seungcheol nods. “My mother bought them for me.” He says with a haughty look, which Jihoon had previously thought only spinster aunts could pull off - and even then only in classic literature. Certainly not grown men sporting batman underwear.

Truthfully, Jihoon’s enjoying this. They haven't had a lot of time for normal conversations in between shifts and briefings and paperwork.

Occasionally on the job they talk about something on TV or half-remembered stories or the things Seungcheol reads in the magazines he takes into the toilet. They talk about  _work_ more of than not, which is why Jihoon sometimes feels as if he’s never left the station. Even when he isn't on duty, work swallows up his life.

An hour later, the two of them are having a standoff over too many empty dishes and the bill.

Jihoon figured it was his turn to pay; Seungcheol’s always the one buying Jihoon coffee and sandwiches on the job, the least Jihoon could do is pay him back by paying for this dinner. But the minute he placed his card on the table, Seungcheol had sighed and looked insultingly world-weary before putting his own down on top, and now it’s all apparently turned into some kind of gentlemanly paying pissing contest where they’re both trying to out pay the other.

Captain Namjoon would be pounding his head against the wall if he could see this.

“I got this.” Seungcheol repeats, placing his card on top of the bill again.

“I can pay for a change. You're always paying.” Jihoon snaps, shoving Seungcheol’s hand off and placing his own card down.

“A gentleman always pays.” Seungcheol says with a magnanimous nod.

“If that’s the case, then _I_ should be the one paying.” Jihoon retorts, pushing Seungcheol’s card back towards him.

Seungcheol shoots him a fondly exasperated look, which he ignores.

In the end, Jihoon wins the pay-off because the waiter found his glare much more convincing than Seungcheol’s and opted to take his card.

* * *

 

They walk outside, where the car is parked a few feet from the restaurant entrance. Seungcheol brushes past him a little closer than strictly necessary.

“Since you got to pay—I think you should let _me_ drive.” Seungcheol laughs and slips round him, he has the keys in his hand before Jihoon realises Seungcheol had even been in his pocket.

Jihoon should definitely protest to that, to being pickpocketed by his partner, but he's just too tired.

Against his better judgement, he finds himself settling in the passenger seat and flopping sideways onto window as soon as the door closes. He’s vaguely aware of his seat shifting, and a hand curling around his bicep and pulling him away from the window to stop his head from thudding against it during the drive.   

The rest of the drive home passes by in a blurry daze, and when Jihoon is next aware, there's a slow, unhurried trail of fingers making their way across his cheek, tracing over his brow and down the slope of his nose.

The fingers stray to the back of his neck, pushing up under his hair. There's familiarity in the touch, it feels like it _belongs_. There's a possessive, indulgent warmth to it, an intimacy. Jihoon hasn't been touched like that for a long time, and that's what eventually pulls him all the way up out of sleep. He blinks his eyes open to find he’s in the passenger side of his patrol car, parked in front of his apartment.

He's aware he should probably be concerned he doesn't remember the process of getting from the restaurant to his house, or how he even managed to strap himself in, but frankly, that requires more energy than he's got.

He turns to unbuckle his seatbelt, and is surprised to find Seungcheol peering at him intently. There's a kind sort of amusement in the normally smug face, and something else he can't quite pin down. Something heavy and almost hesitant that makes Jihoon's face warm for no damn reason at all.

“How many driving offences did you commit to get us here?” Jihoon asks, and winces at how croaky he sounds.

Seungcheol shakes his head, pulling the key out of the ignition. “None. I stayed within the speed limit this time.”

Jihoon narrows his eyes at the wry slant of Seungcheol’s mouth, the softness round his eyes. The loose, imprecise curl of his fingers on the gearshift. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“I think you would have felt it if I hadn’t—but you slept like a baby.” Seungcheol says, unaccustomed gentleness in his eyes as he reaches forward to unbuckle Jihoon’s belt for him. “You snore by the way.” He adds with a grin. 

Jihoon makes a face. “I do _not_.”

Seungcheol leans away, back resting against the car door. “You do. It was adorable.” He says, the look in his eyes shadowed, unreadable.

Jihoon shivers as warmth kindles in his chest. He turns to stare straight ahead through the windshield instead of giving in to the urge to see just what expression Seungcheol is wearing now. “Suppose I should trust you to drive yourself home then. Since you’ve proven yourself to be _somewhat_ reliable. You can pick me up tomorrow.”

“Why, _Jihoonie_. I’m honoured.” Seungcheol purrs.

Jihoon tries to bite down on a smile but fails; he can feel the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Night, Cheol.” He murmurs, letting himself out of the car without looking back.

“Sleep tight cupcake.” Seungcheol replies in a tone so soft it almost sounds fond.

“Don’t wreck my car!” Jihoon calls back over his shoulder as he trudges up the steps to his front door.

It’s only when he’s at his bedroom door, toeing off his shoes does he realise he has Seungcheol’s jacket wrapped around his shoulders.

When did that happen?

He shrugs it off, folding it in half and marvelling at the dark buttery leather. Without smelling it, he can still detect a lingering echo of what Seungcheol had smelled like today, a hint of clean sweat mixed with a faint scent of aftershave and coffee.

It smells so fucking good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry this took so long to update. But, hey, big chapter.   
> 2) OMG so slow burn I die. I just want them to frick already XD  
> 3) Hope you enjoy reading! Feedback always appreciated :)


	6. Background checks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back

Interviewing witnesses during a murder investigation is very time sensitive. You need to get their version of events while it’s still _fresh_ in their minds and before they’ve had time to overthink and distort the facts. Often, interviewing a witness several times might be necessary to corroborate previously missed details, and while it’s still good groundwork, Jihoon’s _amazed_ by how frequently their stories change.

There’s something about death that brings out the best in people, and not speaking ill of the dead is the most frustrating barrier he has to work around as a cop.

As it turns out, it doesn’t matter how much of an asshole you are in life, the minute you die—people _always_ have nice things to say about you. You could have been the biggest cunt on the planet, but after you die, somebody-somewhere will say _: “Yeah, but he sure was a character.’_

Jihoon _tries_ to get statements before revealing the grizzly details, because when people find out they’re investigating a possible murder, they have one of two extreme reactions. Either they clam up; refuse to say anything helpful about the victim or their connection in case it’s used against them, or, they don’t shut the fuck up.

Jihoon prefers the latter. It at least gives him something to work with—even if it means him and Seungcheol have to listen to a lot of self-aggrandizing bullshit before they get something actually worthwhile.

But a week of groundwork later and they’re nowhere closer to understanding why anyone would have wanted to kill Oh Sehun or Youngjae Kim. Or any other the _other_ four victims honestly.  

But as the two most recent victims, Sehun and Youngjae are the easiest to research—though everyone they’ve questioned so far had little personal interactions with the victims or are being annoyingly vague.

That’s why this meeting with one of Sehun’s fellow addicts, Yoon Minhyuk, is so crucial.

Minhyuk is waiting for them tucked into the door of a cafe. He's thin, and bearded, and his clothes look a few sizes too big on him. He seems surprised to see Seungcheol, though he doesn't recoil in fear—which is more than most people who recognise Busan Man of the year—he even leans forward to shake his hand. Then, after a moment, he leans forward to shake Jihoon's, introducing himself at the same time.

He leads them into the cafe, while Jihoon explains that the addiction counsellor, Park Si-Hoo, had been the one to suggest they speak to him.

Minhyuk speaks quietly, he also twitches, and stutters, and cracks his knuckles nervously, his eyes never rest on anything for very long. Jihoon's curious if the man still dabbles in illicit substances, because he just doesn’t look quite _right_.

He suspects whatever drug addiction Minhyuk had, will have a permanent effect on him as it did on Sehun.

“You were in the same rehabilitation group as Sehun, under Dr Park, right?” Jihoon asks.

Minhyuk coughs, fidgets with his glasses. “Yeah. I was in my last few weeks when Sehun joined our counselling sessions. Dr Park was so pleased with my progress, he asked me if I could speak to Sehun and help him get settled, be his first point of contact if you will.”

“And you did?”

“Yeah, I thought it was a….good idea.” Minhyuk says, anxiously glancing around the café as if looking for another exit. Or perhaps someone _eavesdropping_. “It’s easier to open up to somebody who’s going through the same thing, and Dr Park was sure if Sehun saw how I turned my life around, it would inspire him to continue coming to the sessions.”

“But it didn’t work out that way.” Seungcheol offers, watching Minhyuk closely now too.

Minhyuk looks contemplative but doesn't argue.

“It did for the first few weeks, but then I finished my treatment and moved on and I guess we _kind_ of lost contact.” Minhyuk admits, looking guilt-stricken, “The last I spoke to Sehun was over two months ago, when I went back to help with a counselling session. Sehun didn’t look so good—but when I tried to talk to him about it, he clammed up.”

Jihoon adds a few notes to his pad. “Did he ever speak to you about being in debt or losing custody of his daughter?”

“I didn’t even know he _had_ a daughter.” Minhyuk shakes his head, baffled. “And he never mentioned debt before, although…”

“ _Although_?” Seungcheol prompts when Minhyuk hesitates.

Seungcheol’s got the attention span of a ten-year-old sometimes, and Jihoon can see he’s rapidly losing interest to focus on something more interesting in Minhyuk’s top pocket.

“After the last counselling session—I think he tried to _call_ me.” Minhyuk finally says. He leans forward and drops his voice to a confiding murmur. “I can’t be _sure_ it was him—but that night at around 3am, I got a call on my landline. Somebody said my name, but then there was just a minute of heavy breathing before they hung up.”

Jihoon purses his lips. “Why do you think it was Sehun?”

“I only gave that number to a handful of people and Sehun was one of them. I don’t think any of the others would have just called and _breathed_ down the phone at me.” Minhyuk admits, a little shaky. He seems more restless now and drops the paper napkin he was fiddling with to pull a pack of smokes out of his shirt pocket.

“I still can’t believe somebody killed him. I don’t know why _anyone_ would want the guy dead like that.” Minhyuk says, chewing on his lower lip. He flips open the box of cigarettes and takes one out with shaky fingers. “I need to light up, do you mind?”

“No—go ahead.” Jihoon waves a hand, making another note in his book.

He opens his mouth to ask Minhyuk another pressing question, but he's suddenly keenly aware of Seungcheol's eyes on him, staring with a fixed intensity.

 _What_?—Jihoon mouths at him, a little confused.

Seungcheol makes an indecipherable gesture and turns his attention back to Minhyuk, who’s taking deep drags of his cigarette and fidgeting with his lighter.

“That a _menthol_ cigarette?” Seungcheol asks pointedly. 

Jihoon’s head snaps up, his eyes moving quickly between Minhyuk’s face and where his hands are indeed fondling a packet of _Menthol’s_.

Minhyuk pulls the cigarette from between his lips and looks up at Seungcheol expectantly. “Yeah—you want one?”

Seungcheol waves him off, “No, I’m just curious. Is it a taste preference?”

“Oh—not really.” Minhyuk says, hugging his left arm to his chest and taking an unsteady drag. “I thought switching to them would help me give up—but they’re just as addictive. I think I just like having something to do with my hands.”

Jihoon holds his breath waiting to see what else Seungcheol is going to spew out. But instead of flinging baseless accusation or throwing himself across the table to arrest the guy, Seungcheol just smiles and nods.

“That makes sense. Well, I think we’ve got everything we need. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.” Seungcheol says, hastily wrapping things up.

Minhyuk startles at the abrupt end to the interview but doesn’t object; nobody really wants to enter lengthy discussions with the police after all. He stubs out his cigarette in the ash tray on the table and stands as they do.

“Thanks for meeting with us. We appreciate it was a difficult topic of conversation.” Jihoon says, shaking Minhyuk’s hand.

“No, uh—it’s fine.” There's something in Minhyuk's tone that's overly cautious. “I hope you catch the guy. Or woman.” He stammers, smiling wanly at them before shuffling away.

Jihoon wait until the man is out of sight, before turning to his partner.  

“Good spot, Cheol.” He raises an eyebrow approvingly, “I totally missed that I was so busy taking notes.”

“Did you get a look at the box? _Pianissimo_ —same brand that we found at the crime-scene.” Seungcheol grins, fishing a packet of disposable gloves out of his pocket. Snapping one on, he plucks the used cigarette butt out of the ash tray and drops it into the evidence bag in Jihoon’s hand.

“Let’s get back to the station. Wonwoo can run the DNA on this against the menthol’s at the crime-scene.”

* * *

 

“It’s not a match.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_! I know how to do my job.” Wonwoo says, annoyed and transparent about it. He’s obviously still pissed with them over the whole ‘case file theft’ incident, because he’s a lot snappier than usual.  

Jihoon thinks next time he stops by the lab he should bring Wonwoo a decent bottle of wine to say sorry. They don't exactly make cards that say, _“Sorry I went along with my partner’s ludicrous plan to distract you so we could steal some essential case notes, but it was important!”_ or maybe they do, but Jihoon hasn't bothered to check.

Seungcheol huffs. “ _Dammit_ —I was sure we were on to something.”

Jihoon opens his mouth, but Wonwoo doesn’t let him get a word in.

“Listen gentleman,” Wonwoo’s tone is carefully polite, but the tension in his shoulders and jaw continue to broadcast that they’re far from welcome in his space. “There isn’t a DNA match with any of the cigarette butt’s found at the crime scenes. But—I have noticed something else unusual. You’re right about them being the same brand, but they’re technically _different_.”

Seungcheol crosses his arms and Jihoon squints at him, “What do you mean Wonu?”

Wonwoo’s smile sharpens to a fine, purposeful point, as if he’s been waiting all along for just this opportunity. He answers by rolling his chair over to a table where he seems to have been conducting some weird—cigarette dissection experiment.

“Okay—so Pianissimo cigarettes are manufactured by Japan Tobacco, that use the same cellulose acetate filter tow in all their cigarette brands. But get _this_ ,” Wonwoo says brightly, glancing back and forth between them, “Eleven years ago the filter design changed when the filter tow manufacturer they were using, Mitsubishi Rayon, established a joint venture with _another_ chemical manufacturing company, Daicel. They began producing a different acetate tow for cigarette filters that contained vegetable based activated carbon and less triacetin. Japan Tobacco claimed that change improved the smoking experience or some bullshit, but in _actuality_ —it’s a cost-effective measure that—"

 

“Get to the point, _Wonu_.” Seungcheol interjects gruffly, clearly restraining himself from giving Wonwoo the wedgie he deserves.

Wonwoo looks _furious_ to have been interrupted mid science rant, but at Jihoon’s apologetic look he obliges them. “My point _being_ —all the cigarettes collected at your crime scenes are over ten years old. Even the most _recent_ cigarette picked up last month is from a decade-year-old packet that still uses the original filter. The cigarette you had me analyse today however—is from a _current_ Pianissimo Menthol variety that uses the _new_ filter.”

Seungcheol’s mobile rings whilst Wonwoo is pointing out the differences to them, and he steps aside to answer it.

It takes a moment for Wonwoo’s words to hit home, and when they do Jihoon still has to ask, “Are you telling me—our guy is walking around with a vintage pack of cigarettes in his pocket?”

Wonwoo frowns inconclusively. “I never said anything about where he keeps them. All I’m saying is—he’s sure taking his time _smoking_ them.”

Jihoon hums thoughtfully. It’s another clue to work with, certainly, and not just from a forensic perspective; there’s a psychological significance to this that could reveal more about how their killer operates.

“That was the bank,” Seungcheol says, ending his call and coming to stand next to him, “Got a new lead. Apparently _someone_ attempted to make a purchase with Sehun’s credit card yesterday.”

“Huh. Where?” Jihoon asks absently, mind still processing Wonwoo’s new information. There are so many details to absorb—to tuck away in the back of his mind for later, when he just might need them. 

“A liquor store down town, they’re forwarding on the address.”

Jihoon nods, parsing this information. “Wonwoo—thanks for your help. Could I get a copy of your report on the cigarette filters?”

“Sure. I suppose I could email it to you, unless you’d prefer to _steal_ it off my desk again?” Wonwoo mutters, managing to sound polite and bitter at the same time.  

Seungcheol just turns a bright smile on him and slings an arm across his shoulders. “You need to get over it Wonu—we’re all on the same side.”

Wonwoo looks pained, but doesn’t actually move to shrug Seungcheol off, or set him on fire.

Jihoon counts that a victory, but he makes a mental note to buy Wonwoo that bottle of wine _anyway_.

 

* * *

 

The suspect hasn’t noticed him yet, and that’s probably for the best. Jihoon doesn’t want to alert him to his presence and loose crucial ‘evidence’.

He steps closer, the view of the table obscured by the man’s broad shoulders, but he doesn’t need to look to know a crime has been committed.

Grinding his teeth in irritation, Jihoon draws his weapon and aims at the man. “Freeze!”

The man doesn’t even startle, he just snickers darkly under his breath like a psychopath.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t officer Lee Jihoon. I’m afraid you are too late—the deed is done.”

“You son of a bitch. You’re not getting away with this.” Jihoon says in his meanest, fiercest tone, the kind that means in no uncertain terms that he’s not fucking around and he  _will_  cut someone.

“Oh, but I already have.” The man chuckles. He pushes his chair back and rises slowly, turning to gesture theatrically at the table. “As you can see— _there’s nothing left.”_

Jihoon can’t look—can’t bear to see. He levels his weapon at the man’s chest, hating the slight tremor in his hands.

“Why? Just tell me why you did it! _Why me, you son of a bitch!”_ He hisses, feeling crazed and breathless all of a sudden.

The corner of the man’s mouth curves into a nasty smile. He tilts his head down even further than he has to in order to make eye contact with Jihoon, emphasizing Jihoon’s shorter stature with a quick flick of his eyes up and down his body.

“Don’t take it personally. It was purely opportunistic that I selected you. Once I had a taste of what you were capable of—I couldn’t get enough. I just had to have it all. But I must say, I didn’t think you had it in you to catch me.”

It's Jihoon’s turn to smile. “It wasn’t that hard. I was on to you from day one.”

The jerk snorts. “Yeah, right. You got lucky, that’s all.”

Driven by his budding rage, Jihoon takes a step forward. “Maybe I did. But you’ve always been sloppy. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to leave the crusts off the sandwich. They’re the best bit.”

“No! They’re not!” The man points a finger at Jihoon, jaw clenched as if fighting against the words. He slowly curls his hand into a fist. _“I hate the crusts.”_

Jihoon shakes his head, tittering. “The crusts were your downfall Mingyu. I found them in the trash can next to your desk—they lead me straight to you.”

“What the fuck are you guys doing?” A bemused voice interrupts them. “Are you—role playing?”

Jihoon jerks his head to the side to find Seungcheol standing in the doorway, an empty coffee cup in his hand.

Jihoon keeps his stapler focused on Mingyu and gestures with his free hand.  “I caught Mingyu red handed, Cheol. He’s the bastard that’s been stealing my sandwiches.” He seethes.

Seungcheol levels Mingyu a narrow-eyed look. “Dude— _why_? You know he’s possessive about his stuff—that’s why he’s got those cute little labels over everything.”

Mingyu shrugs affably, “He makes good sandwiches and I consistently forget to pack a lunch.”

Seungcheol nods understandingly. He walks over to Jihoon and carefully slides his hand over Jihoon’s on the handle of the stapler. “Let it go Jihoonie. He’s not worth it. Also, a staple could get in his eye!”

“But he ate my lunch!” Jihoon whines, finger waving accusingly in front of Mingyu's chest. 

“I’ll get you something else to eat. Something better. Do you like Sushi?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon’s growling stomach answers for him, and Seungcheol smirks.

“Okay,” Jihoon says in a quiet voice, all the fight draining out of him as he lowers the stapler.

He lets Seungcheol take his hand and guide him out of the staff room, but not before leaving Mingyu with some parting words.

“This isn’t over Mingyu. I’m _going_ to make more sandwiches.” Jihoon yells over his shoulder.

Mingyu narrows his eyes, “And I’ll be there to eat them.”

* * *

 

Well, now that that’s over—they should probably get some _real_ police work done.

* * *

 

When Jihoon steps out of the station, Seungcheol immediately hands him a Bento box.

“What’s this?”

“Your lunch.” Seungcheol says.

Jihoon levels him a confused look, taking a second to catch on. “You—you really got me Sushi? I thought you were just….” He trails off, a blush forming over the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t expect you to, you know.”

Seungcheol rewards his adorableness with a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Well, you didn’t exactly get much to eat. Can’t have you going hungry cupcake, you’re the brains of this partnership.”

He fishes the car keys out of Jihoon's front pocket, then gives him a shove towards the passenger side. "I'm driving. Get in and start eating."

Jihoon looks like he's contemplating arguing for argument's sake for a minute. Then he sighs and gives Seungcheol a grudging half smile. He settles into the passenger seat and unclips the lid, making appreciative noises as he works his way through it.

Seungcheol’s happy he’s enjoying it so much—Jihoon’s the cutest when he’s eating, and the food serves as a good distraction when Seungcheol starts doing 20 above the speed limit.

Jihoon might be getting better at letting him drive, but he’s still a stickler for road safety.

“This sushi is pretty good. Where’d you get it?” Jihoon says, popping another roll into his mouth.

Seungcheol smiles to himself. “I _made_ it.”

Jihoon stares at him for a moment, then laughs sharply. “Really? Shit—you’re full of surprises, huh?”

“Am I?” Seungcheol blinks, turning his head to look at him.” What other surprises am I full of?”

Jihoon lunges across the seat the right the steering wheel. “Your ability to drive without keeping an eye on the fucking road—Jesus Cheol, _please_. You’re going to get us killed.” He whines as Seungcheol swerves dangerously to avoid a rabid-looking motorcycle.

They drive for a few miles more before Seungcheol feels something press against his lips. He glances down to find Jihoon nudging a roll of sushi pinched between two chopsticks against his chin.

“Open up— _ahhm_.” Jihoon says, trying to feed him.

Seungcheol does as he’s told, clamping his mouth around the sushi piece and chewing happily.

Jihoon finishes his last bite of Sushi and pops the lids back on the box. He must notice the ‘Cheol’ label stuck on the lid because he’s waving the box at Seungcheol and beginning to look adorably confused.

“Wait a minute—was this _your_ lunch?” Jihoon gasps.

Seungcheol takes one look at Jihoon's unhappy face and laughs.

Jihoon’s scowl lightens somewhat, and he sits back and stares at the side of Seungcheol’s face. “I can’t believe you just— _let_ me eat your lunch. I’m no better than Mingyu.”

Seungcheol reaches over to squeeze Jihoon’s knee in a placating gesture. “I offered—there’s a difference. And—I eat all day anyway. You’re the one who needs more feeding.” he says, biting back a laugh when Jihoon stares at him incredulously.

Jihoon makes a noise next to him which can only be described as huffy.

* * *

 

Seungcheol parks the patrol car at the side of the road when they reach their destination: A liquor store.

According to Sehun’s bank statements, he spent almost a quarter of his monthly income on purchases from this store. The most notable being an attempted purchase of $35 dollars just yesterday—even though he’s been dead for over a month.

Seungcheol’s pretty sure that a serial killer wouldn’t be stupid enough to use a dead man’s credit card, but _somebody’s_ got their hands on Sehun’s and _that_ makes them one of the last people to see him alive.

“This the place?” Jihoon asks, looking at the store front through the windshield.

Seungcheol double checks the address Sehun’s bank had forwarded them. “ _Yup_. That’s what the credit card statement said anyway. Hopefully they have CCTV.”

By the looks of metal shutters pulled down over the glass, the liquor store is closed for lunch, so they sit for a while as Jihoon goes over his notes. Seungcheol gives up on his own notes pretty quickly, and watches Jihoon instead.

Jihoon’s _much_ more interesting.

His partner is beautiful in profile, features masculine and delicate all at once, and Seungcheol stares like he's trying to memorize them.

He gets away with it for five minutes before Jihoon notices and gets fidgety, another ten before Jihoon finally looks at him with a quirked eyebrow. The eyebrow eloquently conveys ' _What the fuck, dude_?' And Seungcheol could shrug and brush it off, but he already knows that's not what he's going to do.

He reaches over and wipes a non-existent smear at the edge of Jihoon’s mouth with his thumb, letting it linger over his bottom lip.

Jihoon’s mouth falls open slightly, breath shaking out. He looks like he wants to say something, and his eyes are rabbit-wide and locked with Seungcheol's. But he doesn't speak, and neither does Seungcheol, and for a long moment they sit too close together just feeling the tension on the air.

The sudden sound of a motor buzzing breaks them from their staring trance, and Seungcheol flicks his eyes away to see the shops shutters drawing up.

Jihoon clears his throat politely. “The shops opening up. Maybe we should go inside?”

“Yeah, okay.” Seungcheol says.

He’s certain he’s just made things awkward, but there's a grin touching the edges of Jihoon's mouth, and his cheeks are flushed when he grabs his jacket and gets out of the car.

* * *

 

There’s good news and bad news.

The good news: there is a CCTV camera in the store, pointed right at the till.

The bad news:

“Sorry. Camera’s broken.” The store owner shrugs, gesturing at the domed cap of the camera. “Has been for two years. It’s just for show now mostly. I like to think it stops em’ from nicking stuff.”

“Well, okay, but maybe you’ll remember the customer.” Jihoon asks hopefully. “Attempted a purchase yesterday with a stolen bank card and the payment was declined?”

“Card declined?” The liquor owner snorts. “Do you _know_ what part of town you’re in? I get Card declined notifications almost every other customer. I’m thinking of switching to a cash only policy, not a lot of people using plastic on this street.”

“Please, just think. The purchase was attempted at 15:45 yesterday, for the value of $35 dollars. The card belonged to an Oh Se-hun.” Seungcheol asks with a note of resignation in his voice.

The store owner seems to be searching his brain for relevant details, “Sorry, I really don’t get a good look at the cards. I check ID but that’s about it.”

Jihoon and Seungcheol share a frustrated look before walking out.

* * *

 

“This is so fucking annoying.” Jihoon says, flinging his jacket into the backseat. “Why is it every time I think we’re getting closer to something it moves farther away!”

Seungcheol catches his hand mid-flail, brings it down to rest on his knee. "Jihoon, _breathe_ ," he says simply.

And just like that, Jihoon does, slow and briefly painful, and he hadn't even realised how tight his chest was getting.

"You need to relax," Seungcheol starts, cautiously. His hand is still tangled with Jihoon’s, thumb dragging on his skin like he hasn't noticed, which makes something in Jihoon’s chest tighten.

His voice softens as he continues. “We’ll find another lead. We’ve had a pretty good run with the evidence so far—we were bound to come to one or two dead ends—here’s our first. We can handle this. Don’t stress yourself out cupcake.” Seungcheol says, squeezing his hand before lifting away.

Jihoon scrubs at his face. He's flushed, and his hair is sticking up like a pile of hay. He catches a glimpse of himself in the car window, and Seungcheol's not wrong. He looks stressed.

“What if we don’t?” Jihoon says. He sounds—terribly young, even to himself, young and scared and stupid, so he coughs and tries again. “What if whoever has that card tosses it and we can’t link shit back to the murder.”

Seungcheol reaches out to squeeze the back of Jihoon’s neck, then leaves his hand there, lets his open palm linger against Jihoon’s skin, warm and calloused. “We just find something else.”

* * *

 

They don’t have to wait long before somebody tries to use Sehun’s credit card again. A withdrawal is attempted at an ATM two blocks away from the liquor store.

When they catch sight of the man with the red hoodie caught on the ATM’s CCTV, he’s walking down a pavement at a casual pace. They pull the car up a safe distance behind and pursue discreetly on foot.

Discreet isn’t exactly an option however, when Seungcheol is about as conspicuous as a circus float. When the suspect stops in the middle of the street to look around, as if he’s expecting to see something, or someone, he does a double-take when he sees Seungcheol and _bolts_.

“Hey!” Seungcheol says, sprinting after the suspect, Jihoon hot on his heels.

They give chase and follow the perp down a road until he veers off into an alleyway and dead ends himself. The man's probably in his early to mid-thirties, average height with dark hair and shifty brown eyes that plainly say he doesn’t plan on going quietly. When Jihoon approaches him, he swings a fist and misses, backing further against the wrought iron fence. 

“I didn’t do nothing.” The perp snaps.

Jihoon sighs. He really wishes people would stop using double negatives. “Then why were you running?”

The perp stumbles back a step, his skin pale and his lip quivering. “Because I saw Batman here following me and freaked.” He stammers, gesturing at Seungcheol.

“Batman?” Seungcheol echoes, a small smile creeping on his face.

He’s clearly very happy with the nickname, which means Jihoon must be ‘Robin’, something _he’s_ much less happy about.

Jihoon suspects Seungcheol isn't good for anyone's reputation.

“We’re following you because the credit card you just attempted to use—is stolen.”

The perp looks at them both with feigned surprise. “That’s bullshit. It’s my card—you can’t prove I stole anything.”

Seungcheol eases away from Jihoon’s side then, circling around to flank the perp from the side in case he makes a run for it, or whips out a gun. The guy doesn’t seem particularly dangerous aside from being wild eyed and twitchy.  

“I’m pretty sure we can, since Oh-Sehun is in a body bag down at the morgue. So that leaves one question: Did you steal his card _before_ or _after_ you murdered him?” Seungcheol says. Which, for a moment, leaves the perp blinking at him in blank, non-hostile confusion.

The hostility comes back quickly enough.

“Murder?” The guy says, his jawline going tight. “Hell no! I didn’t do anything. He gave me the card—he owed me money, but I never touched him.”

Jihoon can't help the sceptical eyebrow. He really can't. “Alright—we’ll sort this little misunderstanding down at the station.” He says, reaching for the perp.

The guy jumps out of range, sneering. “No fucking way—get your hands off me pint size.”

Jihoon feels a hand fall on his shoulder, pulling him back.

“You want me to punch him in the face?” Seungcheol offers, and Jihoon's sure he means it to be helpful but it's really not.

Jihoon shoots Seungcheol a glare even as he catches the perp’s wrist and tugs it behind his back to cuff him. “No, I don’t need your help, thank you very much. I can handle this _without_ resorting to extreme force. Watch and learn.”

Which is, embarrassingly, the moment the perp wrangles free from his grip and _knees_ him in the balls.

The whole world is suddenly full of pain.

Lots of pain.

Jihoon makes a noise, which is somewhat reminiscent of a cat dying.

Cop training or not, a kick to the nuts still hurts like hell.

“Jihoon!” Seungcheol yells out to him as he doubles over in pain.

It feels like Seungcheol's yelling in his ear, but Jihoon is willing to concede that it might be the disorientation that's making the world seem so loud. A hand pats his face, harder than normal, “Jihoonie, cupcake—you okay?”

"Yeah, yeah….no, not really." Jihoon says, coming back to full awareness. He finds his voice has shot up half an octave and he can’t seem to get it back down.

When he straightens up, he sees Seungcheol’s already knocked the guy out and cuffed him, and is currently making soothing noises in the direction of Jihoon's crotch.

He takes one look at Jihoon’s face and grimaces. “Let’s get you some ice.”

Jihoon squeaks something incomprehensible. Seungcheol at least as the decency not to laugh.

* * *

 

Jihoon’s pretty sure he’s going to be crippled for life, incapable of standing, or sitting, or looking at a knee without wincing, ever again.

He really would love to know why _he's_ the one that gets smacked in the balls. Seungcheol's the one who's always throwing himself at suspects, across parked cars, across un-parked cars, into doorways. If anyone should be the one hunched over, trying to decide if they could walk to the ice machine for a refill or just suffer in silence - it should be Choi Seungcheol.

Instead Seungcheol's sitting on the corner of the desk with a smug look on his face. Looking like a man who's never been hit in the balls in his entire life. Possibly because they're so big he keeps them in a cabinet somewhere.

“You’re enjoying this—aren’t you?” Jihoon glares at him. He can't help how choked he sounds, where he's leant into the desk.

“Enjoying watching you fondle your testicles under your desk?—What’s _not_ to enjoy.” Seungcheol replies, shrugging.

Jihoon narrows his eyes. “I’m not _fondling_ my testicles.”

“Okay then, gently cupping and _rolling_ your testicles.”

“I’m not cupping my testicles. I’m not doing _anything_ to my testicles.” He says, affronted at the accusation.

“Well, your hand was down your pants earlier, so you were doing _something_ to your testicles.”

“Can you guys stop saying the word testicles.” Mingyu snaps from behind his desk. “It’s losing all meaning!”

Jihoon moves to sit down in his chair, and hisses at the uncomfortable shift. He debates the merits of just collapsing, and laying on the desk until he feels better.

Seungcheol pushes himself off the desk, waves a hand. “Drop your pants, let me see.”

"Wha -?" As protests go it isn't quite the vehement denial Jihoon was aiming for. His throat seems to have seized up in shock.

Holding both hands protectively in front of his crotch, teeth gritted when even the proximity makes him wince, Jihoon finally manages to say: “I know we're partners Cheol, but you can’t _just—look_ at my balls.”

Seungcheol levels him an disappointed look. "Why not? You don't want to know if you've _ruptured_ anything?"

Jihoon thinks he hates Seungcheol for even putting that _image_ in his head. He pulls his brain back from the brink before it can start helpfully providing flashcards of it's own.

"No," Jihoon says firmly. "I don't want to look if there's even the faintest chance that I've ruptured anything. I will revel in blissful ignorance. Pain and ignorance."

He thinks he’s got his point across. But then Seungcheol's just pushing his hands away, pulling open his belt, tugging at his fly, stretching the waistband of his boxers and taking a peek anyway, in a way that's probably way past what he's comfortable with, or appropriate for their partnership. Trust Choi Seungcheol to come up with a calculated rationale for molesting him in the workplace.

Jihoon’s gaze darts around the office manically, hoping nobody else has taken notice of what Seungcheol’s doing. But they all seem too preoccupied to care.

Besides, Seungcheol's so fucking confident and relaxed at everything. Even this. It's like he examines testicles every day for some reason or another and if Jihoon comments on it, _he'll_ be the one that's being weird.

“They’re fine—a little swollen, but that’s…. _woah_.” Seungcheol says, dragging his gaze away from the Jihoon’s crotch for a moment to meet his hideously embarrassed eyes.

“Woah what? What’s wrong?” Jihoon panics.

“You sure are packing some heat—for a little guy I mean.” Seungcheol says seriously, looking at Jihoon through his fringe, eyes bright with amusement. “That’s pretty impressive equipment you got there, even _without_ the swelling. I can imagine you had a few _nicknames_ in the academy.”

Jihoon stares back dumbfounded.

"Umm." That's about as far as Jihoon gets because now captain Namjoon’s standing at the foot of the desk, watching them. Watching Seungcheol peek down into Jihoon's boxers!

It takes Jihoon a second to realise that this is _probably_  one of those misunderstandings that can haunt you for your entire life. Or get you kicked off the police force.

“It’s not what it looks like.” Jihoon blurts out, which just makes it all look so much worse. He puts his head in his hands and wishes it were possible for the floor to swallow him up.

“Oh?” Captain Namjoon says, a brow arching. Which under the circumstances is possibly the most disturbing thing he's ever seen.

Seungcheol clears his throat, catching the Captain’s attention and giving Jihoon a chance to button his trousers.

“A perp we were chasing kneed Jihoon in the balls, Sir. I was just making sure everything was still— _intact_.”

“And what’s the consensus?” Captain Namjoon asks.

“I think he needs a cavity search—just to be sure. I’m absolutely ready to perform it.” Seungcheol says, and the Captain laughs.

Jihoon's so damn happy he's finding this funny.

“Like a good partner would. Well done Seungcheol.” Namjoon nods, like he approves and  _how the hell_  does Seungcheol  _do_  that, anyway?

Jihoon is, for the umpteenth time, appalled by Seungcheol’s lack of professionalism and deeply unsettled by his luck.

He waits until the Captain is out of sight before smacking Seungcheol on the arm.

“Stop making us look weird in front of the captain. Is there no arena in which you  _don't_  feel it necessary to be the smuggest guy in the room?". He grunts, but he can't even muster a little bit of ire.

Seungcheol just laughs and throws an arm across him, his breath hot against Jihoon’s cheek.

“Sorry, Cupcake.” Seungcheol he says, not sounding sorry at all.

* * *

 

Jihoon heads to the interrogation room expecting to find Seungcheol there already, maybe threatening their suspect with a hot poker or staple-gunning him to the wall. Instead he’s standing in the observation room, watching the suspect through the two-way mirror and flipping through his rap sheet.

Jihoon moves to stand next to him, peering at the arrest record for himself.

He stares at Park Hyung-Sik’s ugly mugshot and feels grim satisfaction that the camera got it right. The guy has a weighty file: GBH, GTA, armed assault, possession and shoplifting are just a few of the charges listed. And now they can add ‘Assaulting a police officer’ to the pile.

Seungcheol nudges him with a meaningful elbow, and when Jihoon turns to look at him he finds his partner arching one eyebrow. “How do you want to play this? Am I going to be sitting silently while you ask the questions again?”

Jihoon tries to hide a grin and doesn't succeed. “Will you _actually_ be silent this time? Or are you going to interrupt with threats every few minutes?”

Seungcheol side-eyes him. His expression is laden with mock disappointment that does nothing to conceal his amusement.  "I’ll try to _contain_ myself," He says after a minute.

"Oh-shit. Don't do that, you'll probably _explode_." People like Seungcheol aren't supposed to be contained, Jihoon’s not even entirely sure they can be steered. Possibly they just  _happen_.

“Neither of you are going in there.” Captain Namjoon says, falling into line beside them, watching Hyung-Sik through the same one-way mirror.  “We’re releasing him.”

Jihoon and Seungcheol share a surprised look. “What do you _mean_ we’re releasing him?”

Namjoon’s face is knowing and sympathetic and tight with meaning. It’s clearly a move he doesn’t approve of, but apparently one he has judged worthwhile.

“Fellas—it’s not my call. Apparently, Hyung-Sik’s a key witness in another case the District attorney is pursuing _and_ ,” The captain continues, holding up a hand to stop their obvious protest. “ _And_ —they need him to testify in court.”

“Another case? Why didn’t we know about this?” Seungcheol says at the same time Jihoon butts in with, “What other case? Another murder?”

“That’s not something the captain is at liberty to discuss at the moment.” A voice calls out.

The three of them turn to the source: a navy suited man with mid-length dark hair. Seungcheol and Jihoon exchange looks, but it's Seungcheol who asks the question they're both thinking:

“Who the hell are you?”

Captain Namjoon sighs. “This is Yoon Jeonghan—the new assistant district attorney.”

Jeonghan strolls forward confidently and shakes Jihoon’s hand with the other hand resting in his trouser pocket. Jihoon finds him oddly intimidating in a way he finds all ridiculously handsome men oddly intimidating. He can see why Captain Namjoon would comply so readily to release a suspect.

Seungcheol demonstrates his quality friend making skills once again by _looking_ at Jeonghan’s outstretched hand instead of shaking it. He’s clearly pissed off.

“The new ADA? So new you…don’t know how to do your fucking job?” Seungcheol poses coolly.

“Alright Seungcheol, calm down.” The Captain’s phrasing is gentle but his tone is not.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches, “This is such _bullshit_!” He snaps at the Captain, as cold and angry as Jihoon's ever seen him. “How can he just _waltz_ in here and grab _our_ suspect? A suspect _we_ brought in for our case. How can you _let_ him?”

“ _Seungcheol_.” Jihoon intones, giving him a pointed look. He understands the frustration; he feels it too, but there isn't anything they can do about it.

It isn't like Seungcheol to get this upset about something like this. Yeah, sure—everyone has their fair share of outbursts on the job, but this might be the first time Jihoon’s seen Seungcheol overreact.

“We haven’t even had a chance to question him about the credit card he had.” Seungcheol amends, looking a little surprised with himself, too. His anger’s muted now, and the crease in his brow looks a little more like the one he wears when his snack gets stuck in the vending machine than the one that says he’s contemplating violence. “What kind of message are we sending out by making deals and releasing suspects that assault police officers?”

“Oh, but you've already seen to his punishment.” Jeonghan interrupts, with a nod toward their suspects bruised face. “That black eye’s not going to look great when he appears in court next week.” He answers and ignores Seungcheol’s loud scoff.

“What case are you working on that’s more important than a potential serial killer?” Jihoon interjects, trying to ease the tension.  

“Serial Killer? Yeah, _right_. Captain Namjoon’s already argued your case with me, and I hope you have more evidence tying these cases together than a cigarette butt. That kind of circumstantial evidence is _never_ going to hold up in court.”

“They’re _menthol_ cigarette butts. And DNA analysis on four of them  _proves_ they belonged to the same person. I say that’s a lot more than _circumstantial_.” Jihoon corrects, trying to keep his tone courteous.

From Jeonghan’s answering smirk, the attempt to conceal his annoyance doesn’t quite succeed.

“Whatever.” Jeonghan drawls, balefully pulling out his phone.

Jihoon turns his eyes on Park Hyung-Sik as a civilian clothed officer escorts him out of the interrogation room. It’s surprising, how stung he feels. He wants to snap something back at Jeonghan, but that would be stupid. He knows arguing would be selfish and childish and unprofessional.

“Can’t we at least ask him a few questions? It’s hardly going to impact on your case.” Jihoon asks, already suspecting the answer.

“No. That would be backtracking on the deal I made with him.” Jeonghan replies. He looks away sharply, his chin raised. “You’re just going to have to find some other line of evidence to work on.”

Seungcheol starts to argue, but Namjoon cut him off with a simple, “Don’t you guys have a case to investigate?”

"Yes, sir." Two voices respond in perfect unison.

* * *

 

Seungcheol manages to coerce Jihoon out of the station for a burger a few blocks from the station. The coffee's crap, but Jihoon is starting to look wilted and Seungcheol needs caffeine if they’re working overtime.

He has, bizarrely enough, gotten to the point where he'd rather be exhausted with Jihoon than without him. Out of solidarity or something like it, something he's not sure how to explain.

Jihoon’s company can only be bought on the agreement that that case files go with them, so Jihoon can spread them out on _every_ surface of their booth, and enjoy the company of autopsy photographs while they eat.

His partner, endearingly, seems to worry Seungcheol will get bored of the case unless it is waved under his nose every five seconds; Seungcheol would be happy to disabuse him of the notion, but it seems passion for detective work is set into Jihoon at the cellular level.

“Doesn’t that put you off?” Seungcheol says through a mouthful of fries, gesturing to the autopsy photograph of a cadaver sitting by Jihoon’s elbow.

Jihoon shrugs, setting down a file and rubbing his eyes. “It’s just a photo. You see more gruesome things on television these days, and it’s not like you can _smell_ it. The smell’s the worst thing.”

Seungcheol nods in agreement and pushes him empty plate aside so Jihoon can _immediately_ occupy the space with more photographs, carefully annotated with names and dates and locations and a handy little reference that links each photo to a note in Jihoon’s case file.  

It makes Seungcheol smile fondly—he’ll never cease being amused by Jihoon’s fastidious nature.

His petite partner’s brain moves in boxes and lines that Seungcheol has difficulty deciphering, but he’s so positively brilliant at everything he does, so full of inexplicable quirks and motivations that Seungcheol can’t help but be fascinated.

Jihoon’s polished refinement makes Seungcheol want to muss him up a bit—and in the most delightful ways.

The stack of files closest to Jihoon is leaning dangerously, but Seungcheol straightens it and then pulls the pile closer to him. “What am I looking for?”

Jihoon looks at him gratefully. “Connections,” He says, taking a folder from the top of the stack and flipping it open. “I know that's vague, but names, dates, places—anywhere there's overlap. The ADA thinks a cigarette butt isn’t enough to link these murders, and maybe he’s right. I want to find something else to solidify our case when we catch this guy.”

Seungcheol shoot shim a grin and starts working though his stack, making occasional notes on a legal pad he'd snagged from Jihoon.

* * *

 

For the next hour or so, they sort through a stack of bills they’d pulled from Kim Youngjae’s apartment, red ring any suspicious purchases he’d made in the last year and manage to isolate six occasions the man withdrew considerable sums of money from an ATM machine near his home.

“Check this out.” Seungcheol speaks up, pushing two sheets of paper across the table to Jihoon and tapping his finger, forcing Jihoon’s attention to it. 

There’s a string of highlighted figures; sums of money withdrawn from an ATM from both of the victims accounts.

“As far as we know, our victims didn’t know each other—didn’t have any interactions with each other despite their similar circumstances. But here we have both Kim Youngjae _and_ Oh Se-hun making large cash withdrawals around the same time each month. That’s gotta mean something right?”

“Do you think it could be—loan sharks?” Jihoon asks. It's more than half-hunch - more than three-quarters, if Jihoon's honest, divined from the interviews they’ve been having and some statistical guesswork, and also, he's got a _feeling_.

“What do you mean?” asks Seungcheol, but Jihoon can tell he’s already following him. He’s just making Jihoon connect the dots out loud. Making sure he’s really thought this through.

“Youngjae’s mother said he was afraid of people he owed money to. Afraid enough to try and steal from his parents and disappear when that failed. Sehun was in debt too—behind on his child payments and months behind in rent. With their credit history they would never have gotten an official loan, so it’s most likely they dealt with a loan shark.” Jihoon explains.

Seungcheol’s already nodding in agreement. “How much do you want to bet Park Hyung-Sik is involved somehow. It’s the one job missing off his rap sheet—but if the boot fits.”

“He could be working for someone,” Jihoon offers, chewing on his pen lid. “He doesn’t seem to have the smarts for heading a loan shark operation, but he could be the muscle; tasked with making the rounds and collecting the debt. That could have been why he had Sehun’s credit card. And—if he _is_ working for someone, that could also be why the DA is so _interested_ in securing him as a witness. Hoping Hyung-Sik will lead them to a fatter fish.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes, thinking. “Okay, but—does Hyung-Sik fit our profile for the killer? Like you said—he’s not that smart. Hell, he’s not smart enough to tie his shoe laces without suffocating himself, let alone get away with murder for a decade.”

Jihoon sighs, shaking his head. “No—I doubt he’s our guy. But he still might be one of the last people who came in contact with our victims. Still a lead we should pursue—if the ADA would just let us _question_ him.”

Seungcheol slumps forward, crossing his arms on the table, “Fucking lawyers.” He mutters, obviously still nursing his bad mood. “Our job is hard enough without having a jurisdictional pissing match with DA’s office.”

Jihoon hums agreement. “I thought the district attorney was meant to be on our side.” Chewing on the end of his pen, he adds, “But, obviously whatever Mr Yoon is working on is bigger than our case, otherwise the captain wouldn’t have let it slide.”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “It’s probably not Jihoon. Those guys talk about looking at the bigger picture, but I swear they’re just throwing their weight around to prove a point.” He says, in the well-worn tones of someone who has had the same argument many times already. “You can work your ass off, compile all the evidence you need, find your perp and know without a shadow of a doubt they’re guilty and the DA will just waltz in and start shooting holes in your evidence, questioning everything you do all because they’re ‘looking at the bigger picture’.”

Jihoon tilts his head, looking at Seungcheol searchingly. For once he finds nothing light-hearted or flippant on Seungcheol’s face. Just a sharp, frustrated anger.

“Has that— _happened_ to you before?” Jihoon can’t resist prodding. 

Seungcheol gives him a startled look, like he honestly hadn’t realized he was glaring a hole into the table. His features soften, smoothing out from the heavy sulk that was darkening his face moments before. As poker faces go it’s not a particularly good one, but Jihoon appreciates the effort.

“No, not personally.” He concedes with an easy shrug. “But my dad was a cop. A detective back in Daegu for 25 years. Pretty sure dealing with lawyers is what gave him hypertension and pushed him into early retirement.”

“Your dad was a detective? _Wait_ —why am I even surprised?” Jihoon isn't even a little bit surprised. “This makes perfect sense. You’re clearly from a family of bad ass cops that have streets named after them or something.”

“My dad wasn’t anything like me, actually.” Seungcheol laughs, bad mood evaporating entirely. “My dad was thorough, _meticulous_. He worked his ass off and everyone respected him. He was this legendary detective with a great case record and unflinching ethics. Just like you.” He says airily, then aims a cheeky grin at Jihoon.

A sudden tug of warmth slides through Jihoon’s entire body—and he fidgets with the corner of a folder, fighting against the urge to thank Seungcheol, or worse, _blush_.

“You’re exaggerating. I don’t have any of those qualities Seungcheol.” Jihoon mumbles. His face feels hot.

"I'm _not,"_ says Seungcheol huffily. “But, I’m not surprised you’d say that. Modesty is _another_ thing you guys have in common.” 

Jihoon wrinkles his nose. “You've got me all wrong. I might be meticulous and anal about protocols, sure, but I don’t command respect Seungcheol. Most of the guys in the precinct hate me.” He murmurs. He supposes that’s his own fault.

There should be something smug or taunting in the look Seungcheol levels at him—that is Seungcheol’s standard M.O. after all. Instead it’s warm, almost sympathetic. 

“That’s bullshit. They’re just jealous.” Seungcheol says in a tone that's the vocal equivalent of a pat on the head.

Jihoon shies his gaze away towards the window. “Not really. I know what I can be like. I’ve never had an easy go of making friends.” He admits.  

Seungcheol moves suddenly, closing those inches of table between them to lay his hand over Jihoon's.

Jihoon's never been much for casual touches, but he appreciates the gesture. It’s grounding, comforting. Even as Seungcheol’s fingers close around his wrist, strong and insistent, and tighten until Jihoon finally meets his eyes.

He finds a fire there that he doesn't expect.

“I’m not just saying this cause we work together Jihoonie. I’m saying it because I _know_ those guys—I hang out with them and I hear the stuff they say. They don’t hate you—they just see this younger guy with less experience, doing a better job and it rattles them. You might not get the respect you deserve now, but you will one day.” Seungcheol saying in the kindest tone imaginable.

Jihoon blinks in genuine surprise, but he doesn't have any idea what to say. He doesn’t have to, because Seungcheol chooses that moment to interlace their fingers and any coherent response he could have made goes flying out the window.

“It’s cops like you that actually make a difference, Jihoon. You work in the background, on the stuff that doesn’t get _immediate_ attention, but the people who matter will remember the brilliant things you’ve done. Cops like me—we’re just a temporary blip on the radar.”  Seungcheol says. His tone is thick and reverent, confessional.

Jihoon lifts his head.

“You don’t _really_ believe that, do you?” He says, searching Seungcheol’s face.

He has a spilt second in which to register the fact that Seungcheol's making a face he's never seen before. He'd study it further but he’s never seen so many emotions tripping over themselves trying to get out. There’s half furious determination and half something else, something he'd call vulnerability on anyone but him.

Jihoon knows a few things about feeling vulnerable. He honestly never thought he'd have so much in common with his partner.

Seungcheol shrugs, not looking up from where he is still holding onto Jihoon's hand. “So I get to shake the mayor’s hand and somebody might name a road after me, but in the long run I’m still a massive disappointment who got lucky. That’s what my dad keeps telling me anyway—my lucks going to run out and then where will I be?

Jihoon snorts out of old habit before he can help himself. “Your dad sounds like a jerk, Cheol. I don’t think I want to be like him.”

Seungcheol stares at him for a moment, surprise evident in his half-open mouth, stalled on the edge of saying something.

“Sorry.” Jihoon winces, because he's fairly sure that was a stupid thing to say. “That was rude. I didn’t mean to insult your legendary cop dad, I just think that’s a pretty harsh thing to say to your own son.”

“No—no, it’s fine. It’s funny because....I’m pretty sure _you’ve_ echoed the same sentiment.” Seungcheol concedes with a mixture of fondness and resignation.

Jihoon flinches internally because, _yeah_ —he did say something like that once in a fit of irritation. He doesn’t think there’s any truth to it, but the comment has clearly lingered for Seungcheol.

“I _may_ have once said something similar, but I don’t believe it’s true anymore. You’re not a bad cop Seungcheol, you just do things _differently_. I’m beginning to see the appeal in that more and more each day. There's literally nobody else on the precinct I'd prefer to work with on this, and most of the advancements we've made on this case are because you _push_ when I can't. Even if you’re right about your luck striking out, and this moment of fame turns out to be temporary—you won’t be just a blip on the radar. Cause we’ll be partners and—we’ll continue to make a difference in the background.”

Jihoon knows he's doing a crap job of explaining this, but he must have said _something_ right judging by the gleeful expression on Seungcheol’s face.

“Can I get that in writing?” Seungcheol says, quirking a small smile.

Jihoon snorts. “Absolutely not. I can’t have you using my extreme cheesy lapse against me in a court of law.” He jokes, even though some part of his brain is frantically pointing out that their hands are _still touching_.

It’s officially been too long to classify as a companionable.

Something in Jihoon stops him from pulling away though. And instead he opens his hand under the touch, deliberate but tentative, smiling when Seungcheol brushes warm fingers over his knuckles.

“So—uhm, this partnership? You’re finally seeing it as something long term?” Seungcheol says. His voice is shy, but his eyes are steady. Honest. He really wants to know.

Jihoon tips his head thoughtfully.

He's grateful for the small window into Seungcheol's vulnerabilities, being allowed to see something of the man very few get to know, but he's also realized Seungcheol's competence on and off the job is just as much of a turn-on, if not more so, than whatever frailties he'll admit to. Hell, the total package that is Seungcheol promises to keep Jihoon on his toes for the rest of his life, and he finds he's strangely looking forward to the possibilities.

“Sure. The chances of you finding someone willing to deal with your insanity on a regular basis are probably the same as my chances at locating anyone able to tolerate my high standards. So we’re more or less stuck with each other. Besides, who else is going to buy me coffee and feed me sushi?” Jihoon smiles, a touch of something dangerously close to affection in his tone.

Seungcheol’s cell rings, rattling against the table and Seungcheol breaks his warm gaze to glance at it.

“It’s the Captain.” He sighs.

He releases his grip on Jihoon’s hand to answer it, but not five seconds later, Jihoon’s phone rings as well, the stations number in the caller ID.

This can’t be good.

“Hyung-Sik’s dead, we need to go.” Seungcheol says before Jihoon can even reach for his phone.

Jihoon’s shoulders slump as his stomach goes cold. “What?”

“He slipped out of protective custody and just got gunned down a mile away from the safehouse.” Seungcheol says, starting to pack their case notes away with a sober expression on his face. “There’s just one uniform on the scene, and the Captain wants us there before he notifies the ADA.”

* * *

 

When they arrive at the crime scene, Seungcheol seems to take stock of the situation all at once, and a fraction of a second later, he's issuing commands.

It’s like watching the most efficient general ever size up the field of battle and decide on a plan. Seungcheol orders people around like he runs the show, and standing numbly on the side-lines, Jihoon wishes he could be the same; sure of himself, strong and unflappable.

He settles for talking to the first officer on the scene, a uniform with a notepad.

“What happened?” Jihoon asks, gesturing at the smashed-up phone booth where Park Hyung-Sik is decorating the inside of with his bullet-ridden corpse.

“Drive by. He was making a phone call when a red Audi rounded the corner and opened fire on him. We have three witnesses who saw it all: a shop owner closing up for the night got the licence plate number, and we’re running it now. One witness is a nurse who just finished her shift at the district hospital and stopped to help him, she was the one who called 112. And the last witness got a stray bullet in the leg and is on his way to the ICU now.”

Jihoon makes a few notes, then slides on a pair of gloves and starts shifting debris without disturbing the body. “9mm casings in the booth.”

A second later, Seungcheol crouches down beside him and frowns. “45mm’s too.”

“More than one gun? They _really_ wanted him dead.” Jihoon says and Seungcheol nods. “Thing is,” Jihoon says conversationally, “Why the _hell_ did he leave the safe house?”

“I don’t blame him. Those protective custody officers aren’t exactly _riveting_ company.” Seungcheol says cheerfully, snapping on a pair of gloves too. He stops when he sees the Assistant district attorney has arrived on the scene and catches Jihoon’s eye with deliberate gravity. “Great. _Look who it is_.”  

Jihoon elbows him gently, giving him a look that says it's not worth it.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but shuts up as Jeonghan steps under the yellow crime scene tape to get a better look.

“Oh—god. Shit!” Jeonghan says, face paling as he stares at Hyung-Sik’s dead body.

Jihoon wants to point out that the guy wouldn’t have _ended_ up dead if he had of remained in _police_ custody. But he resists the overwhelming urge to be an asshole only because he can practically see the twitch developing in Jeonghan's left eye at the sight of his dead witness.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, resists no such urge.

“I hope your case isn’t built on the testimony of a single guy. That kind of circumstantial evidence is never going to hold up in court.” Seungcheol drawls, echoing Jeonghan’s barb from earlier.

Jihoon knows he shouldn’t be encouraging Seungcheol by snickering under his breath, but he can’t help himself.

 

* * *

 

It was another hour before they are able to leave the body with Crime-scene, and by that time, Jihoon’s exhausted.

Seungcheol lifts the crime scene tape for him to step under, and nods towards the car. “Let’s call it a night cupcake. We can be back at the station first thing tomorrow.”

“Yeah—I’m wrecked anyways.” Jihoon sighs. Pushing his hands into his jacket pocket, where he registers a complete absence of his house keys. “Oh fuck, my front door key is back at my desk. Sorry, do you mind driving me back there first?”

Which is just going to add another hour on to their already extended shift.

“Sure.” Seungcheol agrees, fishing his keys out of his pocket and dangling them from his fingers. Then he smiles and says, “But—my place is just around the corner Jihoon. If we’re going to be back in the station in the morning, why don’t you just……stay at mine.”

There's a question in Seungcheol's voice, clear in his hesitation.

Jihoon blinks at the suggestion. “You don’t mind me crashing on your couch?”

“So, you’re one of those ‘ _personal space is important when sleeping’_ kind of guys?” Seungcheol nods slowly, like he’s thinking that over. “Suit yourself. I _was_ going to suggest the other side of my bed.”

Jihoon’s throat makes a sound that is less dignified than he means it to be. “I’ll take the couch. I don’t think we have the kind of partnership where we can share a bed.”

“ _Yet_.” Seungcheol adds.

There's something smug and reckless and irrefutably  _Seungcheol_  in his smile, when Jihoon looks over. But it's subtle and playful. It's something Jihoon could laugh off _if_ he wanted to. Or it's something he could push at. There are no lines with Seungcheol, none at all. It's like you're always in danger of being pushed off the edge of  _something._

“Are you taking me home or what?” Jihoon snaps.

The corner of Seungcheol’s mouth quirks up, and Jihoon, goddamn it, feels a familiar warmth stir in his chest. Seungcheol's always so good at getting a reaction out of him.

Seungcheol hops over the police cordon and smacks Jihoon's shoulder on his way by, angling for the car.

“Right this way, Cupcake” is all he says in reply, and Jihoon's got no choice but to follow.

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol opens his front door and waves Jihoon in with something that might just be a flourish.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He grins, hanging his jacket on a rack in the entrance.

Jihoon moves over to the couch, and tugs off his jacket, taking a moment to case the living room before sitting.  

He doesn’t know why—but he expected Seungcheol to live in a short-term rental of sorts. One with a massive Plasma screen TV, boxes of Extra Large condoms everywhere, exercise machines and a sex swing or something. But he’s pleasantly surprised it’s anything but.

Seungcheol’s apartment is lovely inside, with the sort of clutter that takes years to accumulate: potted plants and postcards and knick-knacks not so much displayed as drifted into odd corners. One entire side of the room is lined with shelves, books neatly arranged and seemingly well read. Against another, is a massive record collection and a vintage record player. They seem mostly to be rock albums, from what Jihoon can tell without flipping through them.

A bottle of beer swings in front of Jihoon's face, then withdraws. " Oh—shit I forgot you don’t drink.” Seungcheol mumbles.

Jihoon finds himself licking his lips and shaking his head. “No, I’ll take one. I drink, I just don’t like drinking in public places. I—uhm—don’t carry my alcohol _well_.”

Seungcheol gives him a surprised, delighted grin. “Is that _so_.”

Jihoon's been tense since he walked in, and he knows none of this is Seungcheol's fault, except that Seungcheol's bachelor pad is nothing like he imagined. It’s clean, and cosy and smells of—well—Seungcheol, which is a smell Jihoon’s quickly associating with almost every erection he gets these days, so a beer right now would go a long way in helping him relax.  

“So, are you a violent drunk or a friendly one?” Seungcheol asks, flopping back into his easy chair and taking a drink from his own bottle.

“I don’t quite know.” Jihoon says, meeting Seungcheol's eyes for the first time since he walked in. “People are pretty vague when they describe it to me—but it’s usually embarrassing after.”

There's an arched eyebrow, and old shades of amusement and tease. “I promise if you do anything particularly embarrassing I’ll keep it between us.” Seungcheol offers magnanimously, shifting and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Jihoon makes an effort not to sigh. “Thanks.”

Seungcheol sips at his beer thoughtfully, “I might take a video, but that will remain on my phone for my own viewing pleasure.”

Jihoon throws a pillow in Seungcheol's general direction but he catches it easily.

“And if I use it against you as leverage one day—it’s only because you’re so prim and proper I love it when you get your feathers ruffled.” Seungcheol grins and just like that, Jihoon feels some of the tension disappear. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and takes a sip from his beer.

“You’ve got a nice place.” Jihoon pauses purposefully and looks around the room, “I don’t know what I was expecting, but it’s not this.”

Seungcheol smiles around the lip of his bottle, “You were expecting it to be some sort of pig sty, weren’t you. Laundry piled up on all the furniture, empty cans on every surface, a bed composed entirely of empty pizza boxes and a few dozen rats.” Seungcheol says, all mockery, and Jihoon allows himself the smallest of smirks.

“ _No_ , I _wasn’t_.” He takes a thoughtful swig of his beer and leans back against the couch, turning his head from side to side, studying the framed prints and books on display. “It’s nicer than I imagined is all. And I didn’t expect quite so many books.”

“They’re mostly my dad’s.” Seungcheol tells him, as Jihoon leans out of his seat to studiously examine the books on the nearest shelf. “Criminal psychology and forensics stuff he thinks are _useful_. I read through them occasionally, but there’s very few grizzly photos to enjoy.”

Jihoon laughs, and thinks about that for a minute. “Does your father ever offer _insight_?”

There’s a quick, confused blink and then Seungcheol seems to get what he’s asking. “In the case? Oh yeah—all the time. Even when I don’t ask.” Seungcheol laughs, eyes directed fondly towards the ceiling for a moment before settling back on Jihoon. “I talk to him about _you_ mostly.”

Jihoon’s mouth twists with embarrassment. “Oh, _God_. Please don’t tell him about me.”

“Why not?” Seungcheol says, favouring him with a sly sidelong glance as he takes another sip of beer. “It’s all complimentary. He really likes you actually, asks about you all the time.” He drops his voice a notch and leans forward. “Tells me to shut up and follow your lead and maybe I’ll learn something. He even said you’re the best thing to happen to me—it’s the one thing we agree on.”

Jihoon laughs because Seungcheol's not being facetious, he's obviously telling the truth.

“What a smart man. Maybe I wouldn’t mind being compared to him after all.” Jihoon says, rolling his beer bottle between his fingers. It's nearly empty, half a sip or so left in the bottom.

He’s not sure if it's the beer or the simple fact he doesn't usually hang out with anyone like this. There's something in the way Seungcheol's eyes are sizing him up, and it makes Jihoon feel flushed and a little afraid. He licks his dry lips and takes a sip of beer more steadily this time.

“I can’t imagine what it would be like growing up with a dad as a cop. It must be difficult. I imagine they never really—” Jihoon hesitates, searching for the right words.

“Switch off?” Seungcheol finishes for him.

Jihoon’s eyes narrow with understanding. “ _Yeah_.”

Seungcheol grins before growing serious again. “It’s true. For the most part. He made more of an effort when me and my brother were younger—but then his job kind of swallowed up his time with each promotion. He’d get pretty engrossed with cases and everything would be tunnel vision till he saw it through. But I guess most cops are like that, especially detectives. Analysing every detail to death, straining their limit and taking the case home with them.”

“I do that a lot.” Jihoon admits, toying with the label on his bottle. “I try not to—I really try to be more sociable, but the minute I finish my shift, like clockwork, I’m thinking about my next shift and the next person I’m going to speak to and what I’ll say and do, and I rehearse it all in my head. Even when something completely random happens and blows all that preparation to hell—I’m still planning the next shift. If feels pointless as I’m doing it, but I can’t stop.” Jihoon says into the quiet of the room, and he doesn't know what forced him to voice the words, to let them free.

He must sound completely psychotic the way he’s rambling. But Seungcheol’s eyes are soft, understanding, like he _gets_ it.

He's got the kind of contemplative smirk he always wears when Jihoon's given something personal away and Jihoon can feel the heat creep into his face.

“You just need to find a balance Jihoon. Have a life away from work that you can equally dedicate all that enthusiasm too. And if _that_ fails, I could always get you properly drunk and wreck your internal clock mechanisms.” Seungcheol snorts with laughter, and Jihoon can't help joining in.

It feels good to laugh, and Jihoon lets his eyes close and his head tip back while he catches his breath.  He doesn’t know how Seungcheol does it; makes him feel comfortable enough to share this crap. He likes the way Seungcheol fits alongside him, the way Seungcheol takes things in stride. Jihoon still feels too young and more than a little stupid, but he knows at least Seungcheol isn't going to make fun of him for it. More likely he'll be there laughing alongside him.

Seungcheol gets up and grabs the two empty beer bottles in one hand, patting Jihoon on the head as he goes to the kitchen.

The gesture's oddly comforting, and Jihoon decides some things aren't meant to be analysed to death.

He's suddenly dog-tired and the couch looks entirely too good to pass up. Jihoon kicks off his shoes and stretches out on his stomach. By the time Seungcheol's finished puttering around the kitchen and turning lights off, Jihoon's close to falling asleep. He feels the cosy weight of a blanket settling around his shoulders, and Seungcheol's voice is quiet and close.

“You know, cupcake, the thing about clocks is that it's good to let them wind down once in a while, good to let them stop and rest before you crank them up again. You might want to remember that when you're pushing yourself too hard.”

“All my clocks are digital,” Jihoon offers, not quite able to keep the smirk out of his voice, even on the edge of sleep.

“Your _metaphorical_ clock, you methodical jerk.” Seungcheol tuts.

Jihoon squints at him. “What did I tell you about using metaphors?”

“Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes.” Seungcheol says, but it's fond.

“Maybe you find my methodical-ness endearing.” Jihoon protests sleepily.

“Yeah, I do.” There’s a pause, then a hand brushes lightly over Jihoon's hair. “Goodnight cupcake.”

Jihoon smiles into the couch. “G'night Cheol.”

A few seconds later the light clicks out, and Jihoon hears the faint creak of the hardwood as Seungcheol climbs the stairs to his own room.

The blanket's soft against his cheek, and Jihoon tugs it closer, letting himself relax into the couch that smells a little like Seungcheol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I HATE SLOWBURN!!!!!  
> 2) This actually takes ages to write, mostly because of research, but then I'm going back and forth to make sure I'm not contradicting myself. I'm trying to be as correct as possible and I'm sure I'm failing somewhere. But hey--fiction.  
> 3)Hope you enjoy mammoth update! Thank you for reading and feedback always appreciated.


	7. Mistrials and tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Developments, and not just in the case

Captain Namjoon stares into his coffee and wishes he was the kind of man who kept alcohol in one of his desk drawers. He’s certain this is _exactly_ the kind of circumstance the desk drawer flask has been intended for. He drops a teaspoon of powdered whitener into his mug and sighs. It isn't the same.

“So, let me get this straight,” Namjoon begins, glancing over the forlorn faces of the four detectives seated in front of him “Jun started a brawl in the lockers—because you solved a case?”

“I didn’t start anything!” Jun says, affronted at the accusation. “Seungcheol is the one who lashed out first!”

Jun keeps glancing at Seungcheol as if he expects to be assaulted at any moment. Namjoon’s not sure why he seated them next to each other.

That was a dumb move.

“That’s not true!” Jihoon speaks up to defend his partner. “It wasn’t Seungcheol’s fault.”

“Is that _so_?” Namjoon can't help the note of surprise that creeps into his voice. 

Because, by default, in Jihoon’s eyes, Seungcheol is _always_ at fault.

Jihoon invariably takes issue with some aspect of Seungcheol’s professional conduct when it comes to work, whether they’re interviewing suspects or brainstorming ideas for where to go for lunch.

Namjoon is sure the small detective does it deliberately, just to prove Seungcheol wrong in some way.

If Seungcheol finds a clue, Jihoon has already found it and dismissed it as irrelevant; if Seungcheol says it looks like rain, Jihoon just happens to have a detailed weather report on hand that suggests otherwise. If Seungcheol were to propose that the earth revolves round the sun, Namjoon has no doubt that Jihoon would personally discover a fatal flaw in the heliocentric model in order to prove him wrong.

“I’m surprised by you Jihoon. Are you— _defending_ Seungcheol’s conduct?”

Jihoon shrugs, seemingly unmoved by the fact that he has just overruled months of precedent. “Seungcheol was just coming to my defence, Captain. I don’t think he did anything wrong.”

Namjoon smiles, bemused.

Under different circumstances, he would've been _thrilled_ to see such an unselfish gesture arise from the small detective. He’d been worried that partnering them up had been a bad move, but perhaps he should rethink his stance.

“It was Jun’s fault actually.” Jihoon snaps, peevishly. “He was the one who approached me in the lockers first.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow for Jihoon to continue, because clearly there's _more_.

* * *

 

FLASHBACK.

Seungcheol was the first to lash out; Jun was at least right about that much.

One moment Jihoon and Seungcheol are being congratulated for solving a murder-suicide case by the Captain, and the next Jihoon’s being followed into the station lockers by Jun and Minghao.

Words got thrown around, about how Jihoon wasn’t a team player, how none of the other officers liked him and how he was the one responsible for losing them the _Bridge_ murders case, then a subsequent three cases after.

Jihoon was about to start rolling up his sleeves and citing regulations, when he looked up to see Seungcheol standing in the background, hair soaking wet like he’d just come out of the shower, in nothing but a towel.

“Is there a problem here?” Seungcheol had asked in a low, deceptively polite voice. He’d crossed his arms, shoulders squared, dividing a look between them.

“This has nothing to do with you Choi.” Jun had sneered. “We’re just having a conversation with your pint-sized partner here.”

Jihoon’s face grew hot, and his heart lodged in his throat in what felt very much like humiliation.

And thrown by the hurtful comment and having no idea how to deal with it, he shot back, “They’re picking on me Cheol. They said nobody likes me and that I’m a bad cop. They’re blaming me cause the Captain gave us their case.”

Seungcheol’s face had tightened in anger, his fists clenched at his sides.

Then, to make matters worse, Jun had poked Jihoon in the shoulder— _hard_ , and called him an interfering know it all.   

That, more or less, had sent things into a tail spin.

Jun ended up pressed against the lockers with a rapidly swelling black eye, Seungcheol’s hand fisted in his shirtfront, while Minghao was flailing upside down inside a laundry hamper.

Jihoon hadn’t been able to participate much in the brawl. Not because he objected to the need for violence or anything, but because Seungcheol’s towel and fallen off during the scuffle and Jihoon has become suitably distracted by the sight of his naked partner’s HUGE…

 _Anyway_ …

He leaves _that_ part out of the story.  

No need to volunteer fodder for station gossip.

* * *

 

END OF FLASHBACK

“See, _you’re_ the one who started it—by picking on my Jihoonie.” Seungcheol huffs.

“He stole my case!” Jun’s pointy finger waves accusingly in Jihoon’s direction.

“ _We_ stole your case. We _both_ did. But for some reason, you didn’t even say anything to me, you just went straight for Jihoon. Why are you just focusing your anger on him?” Seungcheol says, putting a hand protectively on Jihoon's knee.

Namjoon is strangely proud of the way Seungcheol is ready to defend Jihoon at all costs, rather than hanging him out to dry. It’s what good partners do; they protect each other.

“Because I prefer my odds against him. _Duh_.” Jun admits without shame.

Minghao sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, like he can’t believe his partner admitted to that.

“And we didn’t _steal_ anything.” Jihoon pipes in, pushing forward to perch on the edge of his seat. “We got handed the case because you’d proven to be too _incompetent_ to investigate properly. Maybe if you spent less time brushing your dumb hair and more time interviewing suspects you wouldn’t be here!”

“That’s it!” Jun snarls, standing abruptly with his fists clenched. “Let’s take this outside. Trial by combat. Settle this once and for all.”

Namjoon opens his mouth to protest, but then a broad back is filling his vision as Seungcheol rises out of his seat and positions himself between Jun and Jihoon.

“Alright—lead the way.” Seungcheol says, staring Jun down with a frighteningly blank expression.

Jun’s face crumples. “Woah, woah—not you big guy.” He chuckles sheepishly, hands held out in belated gesture of peace. “I was just hoping to fight Jihoon actually.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes dangerously, possibly considering throwing Jun into a wall. Namjoon is certain that a Jun-shaped dent in the plaster couldn't hurt the overall design of his office, such as it is, but he’d still like to avoid it.

There’s probably ridiculous amounts of paper work involved when random holes start appearing where they shouldn’t be.

“Well, I volunteer to fight in Jihoon’s place.” Seungcheol says with a glare, daring Jun to make something of it.

Jun shares a fearful look with his partner, and now Minghao’s on his feet too—face pinched.

“Okay. But to make it fair—it should be two vs one. Me and Jun against _you_.”

Seungcheol makes a graceless snorting noise.

Jun glares at him.

But Seungcheol's not even close to finished. He steps closer, face inches away from Jun’s. “Fine by me.”

“O-okay then. Y-you’re on.” Jun is saying, stuttering actually, glancing around Namjoon's office as if looking for another exit.

“Seungcheol’s going to wipe the floor with your faces!” Jihoon yells, suddenly standing on his chair and waving a tiny fist.

Namjoon wonders when _that_ happened. When they stopped bickering with each other and started defending each other instead. It warms his heart to see them getting along. He also wonders if it would be against police procedure to start shooting his side arm in the air to get everyone’s attention.

He decides against creating random holes in the ceiling and settles for yelling instead.

“ENOUGH!”

They all freeze, then quickly retake their seats.

Captain Namjoon slumps back into his, sighing tiredly. He already had a headache named ‘Allegations into police corruption’ to worry about, and the last thing he wants is an internal affairs investigation to start over this childish bickering.

“There will be no duel at dawn. Have you forgotten that you’re all law enforcement professionals? There's no real point suspending any of you since all that means is a week of paid leave for you and more paperwork for me. Consider this a warning, though. I expect better from you—from all of you. Especially you Dimples, erm—I mean, _Seungcheol_. You’ve got a reputation to uphold and most of the officers in the precinct look up to you. The last thing they want is to see you brawling with another officer.”

Seungcheol just his chin in defiance. “I defended my partner against this jerk and I’ll do it again. I don’t care what anyone else thinks about me.” He says, giving Jun some serious side eye.

Namjoon finds he can't exactly disagree with Seungcheol's assessment, but that is a different matter entirely, and one that can wait for a more appropriate moment, if such a thing even existed.

Namjoon clears his throat and levels Seungcheol a stern look. “I’m not saying you _shouldn’t_ defend him. I’m saying there was _probably_ a better way to do it than punching Jun in the side of the head and stuffing Minghao in a dirty laundry hamper.”

“Didn’t seem like it at the time.” Seungcheol replies, without missing a beat.

Namjoon attempts another stern look, but it’s clearly lost on Seungcheol who just flashes him a  dimpled smile.

Namjoon can resist smiling back. Damn Dimples McDimple face and his dimples!

“As for you Jun—,” Namjoon says, moving on swiftly before he can be accused of favouritism. “I am responsible for assigning cases. If you’ve gotten a case taken off you—it’s because I said so. So next time you want to pick a fight, remember—you’ll be picking it with _me_.”

“Yes, sir.” Jun says, face grim.

“Now—have you got something you’d like to say to Jihoon?” Namjoon prompts, brow arched pointedly.

Jun nods and turns in is chair to look over at Jihoon. “I’m sorry I insulted you. We’re all part of the same team and I shouldn’t have treated it like a competition. You work hard, and you deserve the cases you get.”

“Thank you, Jun. I appreciate that.” Jihoon says, giving a half-smile of acknowledgement. “And I too shouldn’t have insulted your professionalism. Or your hair.”

Namjoon nods solemnly; they’re finally getting somewhere.  

“And Seungcheol—have you got something you’d like to say to Jun?”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes dramatically, “I suppose I should have solved our disagreement with words, instead of my fists. I’ll be more considerate in the future.”

Namjoon nods in approval, though he knows Seungcheol’s just telling him what he wants to hear. Seungcheol’s as considerate as a crowbar when it comes to defending Jihoon.

“Jihoon—have you got something you’d like to tell Seungcheol? Hm? About how his conduct reflects on the badge, on the stations reputation?”

“Yes, I do actually. Thanks for sticking up for me Cheollie.” Jihoon says, patting Seungcheol on the shoulder affectionately. “That was so sweet of you.”

“Anytime cupcake.” Seungcheol says with distressing sincerity, sharing a tender look with his partner.

Namjoon eyeballs them. “What? NO—no. Don’t _encourage_ him! I was hoping you’d tell him you can stick up for yourself. Cite some departmental regualtions or something!” He groans.

But they’re not listening to him. They’re too busy looking deeply into each other’s eyes, shooting veritable heart eyes at each other.

Oh, fabulous. They’re falling in love.

Just what the station needs; their own Korean drama; a blossoming romance between two officers.  

Namjoon rises from his chair and stalks over to the door, yanking it open. “That’s enough for today. All of you—get out of my office.”

They are all on their feet as soon as it is clear they've been dismissed, and although they don't exactly run out of the office, it is a quick exit nonetheless.

“Except you Jihoon,” Namjoon amends quickly, stepping back towards his desk. Jihoon levels him a confused look as he tries to side-step him on the way to the door. A firm hand on the crook of his elbow stops him. “I need to speak with you for a minute.”

Seungcheol hesitates in the doorway, shooting Jihoon a look over his shoulder that is speaking volumes about _something_ , but Namjoon can't figure out what.

“Captain, I want to—” Seungcheol starts to argue, but Namjoon cuts him off with a simple, “That'll be all, Detective Choi. Thank you.”

For a moment, Namjoon thinks Seungcheol is going to argue with him, but the officer in him wins out.

He hears Seungcheol give a small sigh as he takes a step backward, out of the office. The wink Seungcheol gives in Jihoon's direction as he leaves is almost imperceptible—but it seems to calm Jihoon’s anxious fidgeting.

Jihoon slides into a chair across from Namjoon as soon as Seungcheol shuts the door. “Have I done something sir?”

“No, no. It’s nothing serious Jihoon. I’ve just noticed that you’ve been pulling a lot of overtime recently. Almost 40 hours extra this week alone.” Namjoon says, and watches as Jihoon’s mouth pull down at the edge.

“We’ve had a lot of new cases on our desk. That murder suicide on Monday, the shooting in Jagalchi the next day, and the break in-homicide at Jung-gu yesterday.”

Namjoon tips his head back and considers. “Yes, that’s _true_. But you’ve pulled 40 extra hours this week.” He repeats. Because it's worth repeating he thinks.

“That’s a lot Jihoon. It’s above the legal limit and I appreciate that _sometimes_ , in the line of duty, detectives will pull insane amount of overtime to wrap up a case—but this seems to be a constant thing with you. I don’t want you to become obsessed with your cases—it’s not healthy.”

Jihoon matches Namjoon's stare and refuses to look away, “I’m not _obsessed_. I just don’t like leaving things unfinished. Those first 48 hours are the most important in gathering evidence. Statistically, crimes are less likely to be solved after that point. I didn’t want the trail to get cold.”

Namjoon levels a questioning look across the desk. “I was referring specifically to your obsession with the _Bridge_ murders.”

Jihoon goes quiet at that, gaze falling to the floor.

“That case is inactive until you can find more evidence, but I know you’ve been checking the case files out of evidence lock up every week. You’re _obsessing_ over it, when there’s really not much to obsess over.”

Jihoon lets out a breath and shakes his head. Namjoon watches his face, quiet and tired and ever so slightly disappointed, but trying so hard not to be. “But the killer is _still_ out there.”

“And he’ll continue to be until we can find new evidence.” Namjoon says quietly. “You’re not going to catch a break by pruning through those files over and over again, you’re just going to frustrate yourself. And Seungcheol as well. He’s pulling the overtime too you know, because he doesn’t want to leave you alone.”

Jihoon's mouth pulls into a thin line, telling Namjoon he's scored a direct hit, but Jihoon looks so wounded that he almost feels bad about it.

“I know.” Jihoon starts, pulling at a stray thread on the sleeve of his shirt. He staunchly avoids Namjoon's attempt at eye contact. “But it was my first homicide and—sometimes I think I’ll find something I missed if I just look at it again.”

Namjoon lets out an exasperated sound. He leans back in his desk chair and loosens his tie, pops open the first button on his collar. Better.

“I understand Jihoon. You never forget your first case. But you’re still young —don’t exhaust yourself so early on. You’ll find the guy— _in time_. Just pace yourself, so you don’t burn the candle at both ends, so to speak.”

The corner of Jihoon’s mouth lifts just a little. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

 

Jihoon doesn't even really know how it happens.

It's just—one night he stays over at Seungcheol’s because it’s closer to the station and there’s no reason to drive all the way home, and then it's three weeks later and he's waking up there on a Saturday, has his own section of Seungcheol’s wardrobe filled with spare clothes, and a toothbrush sitting in front of the bathroom mirror.

It was only supposed to be a temporary solution to several late-night shifts in a row, but Jihoon finds Seungcheol’s couch much more welcoming than his own empty apartment.

Besides, Seungcheol's a first-class cook, provides coffee that makes Jihoon's toes curl in the best possible way, and when they're not burning the midnight oil on a new case, they’re knocking back a few beers and trading stories.

It's a little domestic—in a scaled-down way.

Plus, Jihoon appreciates the company; it’s strangely comforting to see his things nestled amongst Seungcheol’s.

Seungcheol doesn’t seem to mind having Jihoon in his space either.

In fact, he doesn’t even offer anymore—he just drives them straight to his place when their shift ends and coax’s him through the door.

You’d think the guy would be sick of him—indulging him at work all day, then clinking beer bottles with him at night, but as Jihoon pads out of the bathroom and down the corridor to the kitchen, Seungcheol looks up from his phone, and smiles.

“Good morning my little muffin. I’d ask how you slept—but I know you slept well cause you were snoring like a tiny teapot all night. Coffee?”

Jihoon scowls.

He isn't sure which thing to take offense to first. The cake themed endearments Seungcheol likes to use for him or that lie about him snoring.

“Yes to coffee—and no to everything else you said.” He grumbles, hopping up into one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

Seungcheol hits him with a teasing grin and starts pulling out mugs and grinding beans.

“Better put it in a travel mug if we’re heading to the station early.” Jihoon says around a yawn.

“We are _not_ heading to the station.” Seungcheol says, leaning back against the counter while the coffee starts to drip. His voice is unusually sharp, and his eyes look serious.

Jihoon rubs a hand over his eyes, blinks at him. “We’re not?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. He opens a cupboard and starts pulling out breakfast things, “I get that you like to review your files when we’re off duty, but I have one Saturday off a Month—I am _not_ spending it in the station. I refuse to allow you to spend it there either.”

“But I just wanted to--”

“I don’t _care_ Jihoon.” Seungcheol’s voice is steely, brokering no argument. “I don’t care if the killer himself waltz’s in to Captain Namjoon’s office and hands himself over. We’re not going in.”

Jihoon pouts while Seungcheol goes rummaging in the refrigerator, pulling out milk and pouring it into the frother.

He’s still pouting when Seungcheol turns to face him, and Seungcheol’s face goes soft with apology.

“You and that pout. _I swear to god_ , it will be the _end_ of me.” Seungcheol snorts, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Okay, I might—at a push, allow you to glance at your notes for an hour or so while I go grab some groceries. But that’s it. After that—we’re _relaxing_. Whether you like it or not.”

“Okay.” Jihoon sighs. He goes over to coffee table and sets up shop, pulling files upon files out of his bag and plugging in his laptop. Seungcheol comes over a few minutes later with a steaming mug and a croissant, cut in half and smeared with peanut butter, with a drizzle of honey on top. He puts the plate down first.

And what Jihoon wants to say is  _How the hell did you know how I like my croissants, are you **psychic**_ , but what he does says is, "Why are you always trying to feed me?"

Seungcheol arches an eyebrow at him. "Because that’s what people _do_ Jihoon. They eat, sometimes multiple times a day. I’m sure you’ve read reports on this peculiar tribal behaviour. And if _I_ didn’t take responsibility for your nourishment, I’m pretty sure you’d die of starvation.”

Jihoon scoffs. “I was feeding myself fine before you came along.”

Both Seungcheol’s brows rise this time, as though to call out precisely how ridiculous Jihoon is being. “ _Barely_. I had to handfeed you your fries yesterday because you wouldn’t put the file down, and that was the last thing you ate. Over twelve hours ago. Aren’t you hungry?”

Jihoon's growling stomach answers for him, and Seungcheol smirks. "I thought so."

"Fine. But eating time can’t be deducted from my hour." Jihoon says primly.  

Seungcheol’s smirk mutates into a pursed-lip frown and narrowed eyes, but he doesn't say anything. Instead he sighs, waits for Jihoon to take a bite, nods, and hands over the coffee.

“I’m gonna grab some groceries.” Seungcheol says. He grabs his jacket and key and pulls open the front door. “After that—it’s downtime.”

The door thumps shut behind him.

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s not quite sure how he managed it—but it’s a Saturday morning and he’s just left Jihoon sitting on his couch, eating a croissant, sipping coffee and wearing his old Daegu Police academy T-Shirt.

 _Seungcheol’s_ Police academy T-Shirt.

Jihoon has a small corner of his wardrobe filled with spare clothes, but he’s choosing to wear _Seungcheol’s_ T-shirt.

 _Again_.

The first time Seungcheol caught sight of him in it, he felt a burst of  _want_  deep in the pit of his stomach, and nearly had a nose bleed.  

It was nothing serious, just the sort of dumb animal lust that tended to flare up when he saw a beautiful woman sprawled naked on a bed or a hot guy with a dick down his throat – or Jihoon, apparently, with a serious case of bed head, snoring on his couch in a T-shirt four sizes too big for him where the hem rid low on his thighs.

Seungcheol managed to play it cool though, and pretended it was no big deal.

And it _isn’t_ a big deal.

There's absolutely no reason to get sappy and ridiculous just because Jihoon has been sleeping in his T-shirt all week.

A T-shirt where the sleeves reach Jihoon’s _elbows_ , and the collar keeps slipping off his pale shoulder.

 _Fuck_ —Seungcheol’s almost having a nosebleed just _thinking_ about it.

 _Anyway_ ….

It’s progress.

It’s _definitely_ progress in their relationship, Seungcheol thinks.

He still hasn’t managed to coax Jihoon into his bedroom yet, to sleep in the other half of the bed—but he’s _getting there._

When Seungcheol gets back to the flat, he finds Jihoon is still staring at the crime scene photos he'd been obsessing over before he'd gone out.

They're spread out all over the coffee table, Jihoon's striding back and forth and glaring down at them in a way that suggests he's made no progress at all.

Restless energy keeps the guy in motion, despite the fact that he has almost certainly been moving at the same relentless clip for the past hour.

Jihoon apparently hasn't noticed he's no longer alone, judging by the fact that he doesn't slow or falter.

Seungcheol sets his grocery bag down quietly and leans against the open doorframe, his own posture relaxed as he watches his partner storm back and forth.

Jihoon occasionally mutters to himself, too quietly for Seungcheol to discern the words, but mostly he is silent, unware of his bemused audience.

Seungcheol should probably announce his presence, because there's something unexpectedly charming about the way Jihoon tenses up and looks around momentarily, like a startled meerkat when someone surprises him, but he waits. Enjoying the rare opportunity to observe Jihoon without consequence.

It’s not easy, but Seungcheol has been trying real hard to be curb how he feels.  

Honestly. Because the interest he takes in his young, brilliant, beautifully distracting partner is out of line, no matter how he tries to rationalize it.

He can’t do anything to banish the feelings, but he's gone to great lengths to make sure no one suspects his preoccupation with Jihoon—least of all Jihoon himself.

But for once he is alone, and unnoticed, and Seungcheol allows himself this fleeting indulgence.

It lasts several minutes before Jihoon spots him and draws to an abrupt halt, staring from across the room. "How long have you been standing there?"

Seungcheol allows an amused quirk at one corner of his mouth, the barest fraction of a smile. "Just got in. Are you all right?"

Jihoon simply resumes his pacing, shaking his head.

"Your hour is almost up.” Seungcheol reminds him, while shaking his jacket off. “In ten minutes I’m confiscating those files away from you and we’re going to have fun. Fun that doesn’t involve dead bodies.”

You’d think that would go without saying—but Seungcheol doesn’t want a replay of last weekend off’s visit to the pathologist’s lab. Or the weekend before that when Jihoon tricked him into going to an indoor rock climbing centre, so they could study intricate knots the killer may have used.

"Something's wrong," Jihoon insists, hands held out in front of him like he thinks he can grab onto the sliver of wrongness and drag it out into the light. "The rope burn, it isn't right, he’s clearly staged the body for show but it doesn’t match—it doesn’t make _sense_."

Seungcheol smiles and shakes his head, then strolls into the kitchen to pack away his groceries.

He’s quick about it, because he knows that any minute now his partner will call for him; Jihoon’s genius strikes at random moments and he needs Seungcheol _there_ , in his face, so he can bounce theories off him.

He’s almost finished when Jihoon, right on cue, calls out to him from the living room.

“ _Cheol_ —come please. I need your help with something.”

Seungcheol dumps the rest of his groceries on the counter with a grin. “Yes, dear.”

Jihoon’s stopped his pacing to sit on the couch when Seungcheol enters. His petite partner is staring at his case notes with that ever so slightly terrifying intensity that suggests anything that fails to be interesting may very well be shot, on principle.

Jihoon is weird, awesome, but weird.

Seungcheol kind of likes him like that.

“What can I do for you crumpet?” Seungcheol says, padding over to the couch.

“I need you to choke me.” Jihoon says brightly, setting down his empty mug with a look of determination and flipping to the next page in his notes.

Seungcheol freezes where he stands. His eyes widen and his jaw drops.

He must have heard wrong. _Surely_.

“W- _what_?” Seungcheol asks, his voice hoarse.

“I need you to choke me.” Jihoon repeats, licking his finger and flipping another page. He glances up when he's met with nothing but silence and elaborates _. “With your hands.”_

And _yes_ , that’s slightly more specific but not by much.

Seungcheol licks his lips, picking out delicate words. “ _Okay_. Look—I’m up for anything normally, but this is jumping the gun a little, don’t you think? I mean—I’m not saying it’s not something I _wouldn’t_ be into per say, I just think there’s a lot of stuff that comes _before_ the weird kink fulfilment. Stuff like dinner and cuddling and watching you sleep. You might be surprised to know this, but I’m a romantic at heart Jihoon.”

Jihoon squints at him, assessing, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and your sudden breath-play kink.” Seungcheol says, through a frown that's as disapproving as he can make it

Jihoon levels him that look he has, when he thinks Seungcheol is being specifically and purposefully obtuse. He gestures at one of the photographs resting on his lap.

“I want you to choke me because I am _trying_ to recreate the bruises in this picture.” Jihoon explains, slowly, the way he might speak to a small and fairly dim child. “The crime scene photographs fixated on the rope burn—but if you look here at the autopsy photographs, there are two darker bruises on Sehun’s neck.”

Seungcheol scratches his head and sinks down into a couch next to his partner. Taking the photograph from Jihoon’s hand, he studies it carefully, noting the two spots of discolouration on either side of their victim’s trachea.

The severity of the rope burn from where the victim was hung off a bridge effectively camouflaged the older bruises, but they’re noticeable now in the autopsy close ups.

“Huh.” Seungcheol says, still scratching his head thoughtfully. “What are those?”

“They’re _strangulation_ marks.” Jihoon chirps, and Seungcheol's sure he means it to be helpful but it's really not.

“But we already _knew_ he was strangled. They were all strangled.”

“Not the way we thought!” Jihoon says excitedly. He waves one of the autopsy photographs under Seungcheol’s nose pointedly. “See this bruising? It’s darker and deeper, suggesting more force was applied directly to this spot as the victim was strangled. The only way to match that bruising pattern, if for the killer to be facing their victim head on.”

Before Seungcheol can wrap his head around that. Jihoon’s swiping the photograph away and swivelling his laptop around to show Seungcheol a document on screen.

“After Wonwoo told us about that vintage pack of cigarettes, I’ve been going over the autopsy report again, looking for other things that don’t add up. Take the pathologists report for instance; each victims’ cause of death was recorded as ‘strangulation’ because of the contusions around the neck and the build-up of CO2 in the brain—which would fit strangulation to a T.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow, because he's still hoping for a little more here. “Okay, _and_ —”

“ _And_ —everyone who’s looked into these cases has just focused on the most obvious details of the crime scene. They’ve summarised that each victim was strangled with a length of rope, then tossed over a bridge. But the drop from the bridge caused a lot of surface damage, _as well as_ severing the victims’ spine with the force of it.”

Seungcheol frowns, not following, but gestures impatiently for him to continue.  “So….”

Jihoon holds a hand up, requesting patience. “So where is the _haemorrhaging_?”

Seungcheol screws up his face and shakes his head. “Okay, you’ve lost me.”

“The haemorrhaging along the spinal column was _minimal_.  For a drop of that height, there should be massive areas of internal bruising where the spine severed. But instead, there are just some uniform clots, which _suggest_ —” Jihoon pauses, possibly for dramatic effect, although Seungcheol has the sinking suspicion Jihoon expects him to actually finish the sentence.

Seungcheol hates to let him down—but he’s still sort of lost.

“Which _suggests?”_ Seungcheol prompts hopefully.

Jihoon rolls his eyes, but it’s a fond thing. “Which suggests—Sehun was dead for over an hour before he was pushed off the bridge.”

“So, what you’re saying is—our killer strangled him, then put the rope around his neck—strangled him again—then hung him off the bridge?” Seungcheol says doubtfully.

“Yes!” Jihoon grins, slapping him on the shoulder with the photograph.

Seungcheol frowns. “That seems like a lot of hard work. It’s overkill.”

“No. It’s _personal_.” Jihoon corrects.

“What do you mean?” Seungcheol asks, because it occurs to him that he doesn’t have a clue.

Jihoon sets the photograph down on the coffee table to take hold of Seungcheol’s hands, bringing them up to his throat. “Choke me.”

Seungcheol raises a dubious eyebrow, only to get one right back. He exhales surprised laughter and shakes his head lightly. “Jihoon—"

“Seungcheol— _please_.” Jihoon's whining now, his frustrated _'I don't understand why people don't just do what I want'_ sort of whining. The one that no sane person should ever pay attention to. “Just choke me. A little bit. Come on—it’s for _science_.”

Seungcheol sighs out a breath and relents.

“Okay.” There's a flicker of hesitation on his part and then Seungcheol curls his fingers around Jihoon's neck, fingers digging in where the skin is thin and delicate.

Jihoon glances at the autopsy picture out of the corner of his eye, then says, “A little higher.”

Seungcheol adjusts his grip, sliding his open palms up the column of Jihoon’s throat till his thumbs rest just under the hinge of his jaw.

“Yeah—that’s perf—"Jihoon makes a soft choked off noise, mouth snapping shut as Seungcheol exerts gentle pressure.

Seungcheol loosens his grip instantly, but keeps his fingers and thumb in place, pressing, until Jihoon tilts his head up and blinks at him in confusion.

“Why’d you stop?”

“Because Jihoon—I don’t want to choke my partner.” Seungcheol replies flatly.

Jihoon rolls his eyes, like _Seungcheol’s_ the one being unreasonable.

“See. This is how he strangled them. With his bare hands.” Jihoon says after a moment, pulling up the autopsy photograph again for reference. “Not with the rope like we originally thought.”

“Yeah, _yeah_ —I see that now.” Seungcheol nods, sparing a glance between the photograph in Jihoon’s hand and how his own grip matches the strangulation pattern. “The bruises match up with where the killer’s thumbs dig into the skin.”

“See—I knew you’d get there eventually.” Jihoon smirks approvingly.

He manages to make it sound as if Seungcheol's as thick as a Cold War bunker and yet somehow also the prize at the bottom of the cereal box. It feels like teasing, which is strange and a bit confusing, but Seungcheol still ends up smiling at him.

“Now, Cheollie,” Jihoon’s voice is pulling him back to attention. “Look at me and tell me—what are you thinking?”

Seungcheol quirks an amused brow. “I’m _thinking_ …..you have a very small face. And that mole under your eye is the cutest thing ever.”

Jihoon stares at him peevishly, like Seungcheol has just _insulted_ him.

“ _Hey_ —what’s with the look? It’s _true_. I can’t help but notice these things when they’re staring me in the face.” Seungcheol laughs, and it's amazing how quickly Jihoon's face transforms from a glare to something that looks like excitement.

“Yes, yes! That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you!” Jihoon says as if that explains everything.

“Huh?”

“Our killer was staring his victims right in the face when he strangled them. He used in own two hands to do it too—and _that_ —that is what makes this personal.”

Seungcheol lets his hands slide away from Jihoon’s throat, dropping to his sides.

“You think our killer knew his victims— _personally_?” He asks, eyebrows shooting up.

Jihoon nods grimly.

“I think it’s a big possibility. Like you said earlier, it’s overkill to go to the effort of strangling someone, _then_ doing it again with a rope— _then_ hanging them—but this guy did it to all six victims. He was consistent, didn’t cut corners at any stage and wanted to look them in the eye as they took their dying breath. That feels personal to me.”

“Like he wanted to punish them—even after death.” Seungcheol says automatically, not thinking. Instinct. “That’s pretty dark.”

“Damn right it is.” Jihoon manages to sound personally offended by the fact. “He’s clearly got some personal vendetta.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, not disagreeing but surprised and relieved as the pieces of their investigation come together.

Jihoon’s done it again—found them another clue just from observing the ones they already had at a different angle.

Seungcheol’s continuously amazed by how he manages to do that.

He thinks Jihoon would've made an excellent psychologist, although he'd never tell him that. Jihoon's generally not fond of anyone associated with the mental health professions, and Seungcheol wouldn't want him to get the wrong impression. He means it as a compliment even if he can't quite explain why.

“You’re so smart.” Seungcheol says, smiling at his partner warmly. “Always coming up with new theories. I love watching you work it all out—you’re fascinating.”

Jihoon is quiet for a very long time, peering up at Seungcheol through blonde, bedridden curls. There’s surprise evident in his half-open mouth, stalled on the edge of saying something. Then he shakes his head, and the calm, professional mask slides back into place.

“Thanks.” Jihoon mumbles, the faintest glimmer of a blush on his cheeks.

Without thinking about it, Seungcheol’s hand comes up to cup Jihoon's cheek, thumb sweeping over the arch of his cheekbone like he can feel the heat there.

Jihoon inhales, sharply through his nose, and for a fraction of a second Seungcheol thinks he's going to pull away, or tell him to _stop_. But then his head very slowly tips up. Far enough that Seungcheol can smooth the pad of his thumb over his impossibly smooth lower lip.

He can hear Jihoon's rough, shaky swallow, can feel the way air rushes out every time his thumb passes the soft bow of his lip.

The photographs slither out of Jihoon's grip and hit the floor in pieces. And it hits Seungcheol then, a rush of awareness of what’s happening; Jihoon so close and so warm and looking so fucking beautiful, the heat of his skin soaking into Seungcheol's.

Want thrums through him and Seungcheol is so instantly, violently aware of what he’s doing.

He’s afraid to speak, he's half afraid to  _breathe_. Because he knows if he lets Jihoon go, if he moves - the moment will break and Jihoon will go back to his photographs.

He'll pretend this never happened. They probably won't ever speak about it again.

"Jihoon—I," He feels surprised, and then again not surprised at all, to hear himself sounding breathy and expectant.

Jihoon leans a few inches closer, his gaze unfalteringly trained on Seungcheol, his expression assessing and intimately focused.

Seungcheol really thinks they’re going to kiss,  _finally_ , and then there will be other things: nakedness and rumpled sheets and  _Cheol, please!_

But then Seungcheol can see it happen in Jihoon's face, a slow-motion tipping of the scales in the other direction as Jihoon's brain cycles through whatever bullshit reasons he's come up with for why they shouldn't do this.

Jihoon pulls back abruptly and Seungcheol’s hand drops to the side as they lean away from one another.

Neither of them speak for a few minutes, maybe both needing time to collect themselves before this gets complicated

"I thought we could go down to the beach." Seungcheol says eventually, breaking the silence.

He gestures vaguely towards the surf board that’s been languishing unused in the corner, astonished at how rough his voice is when he adds, “I’ve never actually been to the beach here for leisure. Thought we could spend the afternoon there, maybe grab food later.”

“Okay. That sounds like fun." Jihoon sounds half-drunk himself, staring down at the crime scene photographs littering the floor as though trying to rearrange them like pieces of a vexing puzzle.

Seungcheol curses himself internally and stands from the couch.  

So much for trying to keep himself in order.

* * *

 

Jihoon waits all weekend to see if Seungcheol will say anything about what had happened—or more to the point, what _hadn't_ —but the closest Seungcheol comes to bringing it up are a few suspicious glances cast in Jihoon's direction.

If Seungcheol isn't going to talk about it, then Jihoon certainly isn't. So, they both soldier on manfully, ignoring that there is anything awkward or tense between them even as they head to the beach that afternoon and grab dinner together after.

Jihoon spends Sunday holed up in his own apartment, pretending he's come down with a bout of sunstroke, when in fact he’s spent most of the day lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking— _HOLY SHIT! I ALMOST KISSED SEUNGCHEOL!_

_OH GOD!_

_OH GOD!_

_OH GOD!_

What the _hell_ was he thinking?

One minute they’re sitting on the couch, going through clues together and the next Jihoon is leaning into Seungcheol’s space, intent on _kissing him._ And why? All because Seungcheol caressed his cheek and said some nice things that made Jihoon feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

 _Jesus_. He really needs to get his brain an it’s wildly inappropriate expectations back down to earth.

Seungcheol is a naturally flirty guy—he’s outwardly friendly with most of the guys at the station, so Jihoon shouldn’t be feeling special over a little closeness on the couch. He definitely shouldn’t be misinterpreting an innocent gesture from his partner into something it’s clearly not.

Seungcheol is not interested in him like that. He’s probably seeing someone, probably having fantastic, athletic—Busan Man of the Year—sex, with equally hot people when Jihoon isn’t crashing on his couch and interfering with his life.

The thought leaves an uncomfortable hollowness in Jihoon’s stomach, because he realises he’s been kipping on Seungcheol’s couch for the last three weeks, soaking up all his free time and the man is too _kind_ and _decent_ to tell him to fuck off back to his own apartment.

* * *

 

When Seungcheol picks him up for work on Monday, the drive to the station is so carefully polite it is almost painful.

Seungcheol doesn't use the word "cupcake" even once, which Jihoon tries not to be pissed about, not very successfully.

Their weird hedging of the issue lasts up until Wednesday, when they both stroll into the station to find the Assistant district attorney, Jeonghan, perched on Jihoon’s desk.

“Good morning fellas!” Jeonghan’s voice is loud enough to carry through the bullpen. “I was wondering when you’d get in.”

They both stop walking and look at each other long enough for Seungcheol to raise a truly impressive eyebrow of _'what the fuck?'_ at him.

“Mr Yoon, good morning.” Jihoon begins diplomatically as he rounds the desk, while Seungcheol adds a rather less diplomatic, “What the hell do _you_ want?”

If Jeonghan’s surprised by their different approaches, he doesn’t show it. He just jumps down off the desk to reveal a cupholder with two coffees sitting behind him, and a white pastry box.

Jihoon can smell the warm, sugary dough of fresh donuts and his stomach gurgles. He hasn’t had breakfast yet.  

“I was just in the area and thought I’d stop by. _Hang_ with my two favourite detectives.” Jeonghan says. It’s a little awkward, like he can’t get the hang of small talk. Or maybe he just doesn't see the point of it.

“Look—I brought us coffee and _donuts_. That’s what you dudes eat. Right? _Donuts_?”

The way Jeonghan gestures at the Donuts gives the impression he’s never actually eaten one himself—because they’re beneath him.

“We are partial to donuts, yes.” Seungcheol says, dragging the box carefully closer and peering inside suspiciously, like Jeonghan may have replaced the donuts with Gwyneth Paltrow’s severed head. “That still doesn’t explain why _you’re_ here.”

“I thought we could _chillax_ —and shoot the shit.” Jeonghan makes a gun out of his thumb and index finger and mimes pulling the trigger.

“Jeonghan— _please_.” Jihoon groans, giving him a half-hearted smile, “You are so out of character right now it’s painful to watch. Just tell us what you want.”

“ _Yesh_ ,” Seungcheol’s agreement is muffled as he chews through his donut. “We know you only come down here when you _have_ to. You don’t exactly blend in with your _Armani_ suit.”

Jeonghan shoots him a withering look. “It’s Tom Ford _actually_.”

Seungcheol stops halfway to taking another bite of his donut and looks at Jihoon as if to say, _"Make him leave or I will."_

Jeonghan sits back in a chair and throws his hands in the air. “Okay—I get it. We didn’t get off to the best start.”

“No thanks to you.” Jihoon replies, grabbing one of the coffees and saluting him with it.

“ _But_ —” Jeonghan cuts in sharply, “I’m trying to make amends.” He pauses to open his briefcase and pull out a manila case folder, that he sets down on Jihoon’s desk. “Consider this an Olive branch.”

Jihoon rests a hand over the folder, but doesn’t open it yet. “What is it?”

“A case I’m building. _Was_ trying to build until my prime witness was gunned down a few weeks ago.” Jeonghan reminds them, looking tense. “The judge declared a mistrial.”

Jihoon grimaces in sympathy, then flips the file open and shuffles through Jeonghan’s case notes.

There a few police reports filed back in 2016, and a witness statement that's so carefully-worded, Jihoon's positive the witness didn't share the full story—he probably didn't even give them half the story. Jihoon can't remember seeing witness testimony that's less than a page long in ... well, ever, and this is maybe 150 words, tops. Jihoon's usually pretty good at reading between the lines when it comes to court jargon, but this time he's got nothing. It reads like a report that's been redacted, but without all the annoying black lines to tell you there's something missing.

He’s beginning to understand why Jeonghan was so protective over his key witness—it was all he had.

There are a few photographs inside too, and he sorts through them quickly, passing each one across the desk to Seungcheol. The prime subject seems to be a one—Yoon Tae-Young, a relatively handsome man in his late forties. Black hair, thinning at the top. Hard brown eyes.

For someone the District Attorney’s office has such a vested interest in—there’s surprisingly very little recorded in his criminal record.

Jihoon’s never even heard of the guy.

“Yoon Tae-Young? That supposed to mean something to us?” He asks, quirking a brow at Jeonghan.

“He’s a drug dealer.” Seungcheol grumbles from behind him, shuffling through the photographs once more. At Jihoon’s inquisitive look, he shrugs. “Some of the guys down at narcotics talk about him. He’s a pain in the ass— _apparently_.” He says, picking the case file up and examining it himself. 

Jeonghan’s eyebrows do an interesting dance.

“He’s not _just_ a drug dealer—he’s THE drug dealer. He operates throughout the country—but has recently set up base in Busan and is creating quite the ruckus. Eliminating rival drug lords as he sets up shop.”

Jihoon pauses with his coffee half way to his mouth. “So—you think he’s the one who had Hyung-Sik gunned down? To prevent him from testifying?” He ventures carefully.

Jeonghan nods slowly. “Who else? Every district attorney in Korea has been trying to pin something on this guy, but he keeps slipping. Numerous mistrials, witness intimidation, jury tampering— _death threats._ Yoon Tae-Young has spent ten years building a drug empire up from the ground, and he’s _ruthless_ about protecting it.”

“Sounds like a job for the narcotics division.” Seungcheol mumbles, distracted as he flips through the folder. He folds it shut a moment later and holds it out for Jeonghan to take. “We’re homicide detectives, or have you forgotten?”

Jeonghan’s eyes have turned to steel. He crosses his arms instead of accepting the case file back.

“He’s relevant to your Bridge Murders case too!” He exclaims, sounding incredulous.

Seungcheol’s forehead creases as he considers that. “ _How_?”

“He hired the man who was caught with your murder victim’s credit card. He operates as a loan shark amongst other things. Although I don’t have enough evidence to prove it, I know he’s responsible for ordering hits on his competitors. I don’t know what the exact link is, but your victim probably owed him money, and probably paid with his life.”

Seungcheol snorts, “Now you’re just grasping at straws.”

Jeonghan makes a frustrated gesture and looks to Jihoon for confirmation.

Jihoon sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. “What my partner means is—he doesn’t fit the profile of the guy we’re looking for. This Tae-young guy may be a _murderer_ , but we’re looking for a serial killer here. Our interest in your now _dead_ witness wasn’t because we thought he was _linked_ to the murder—it’s because he was one of the last people to see Sehun alive. We were trying to build a timeline.”

“Look,” Jeonghan sighs, pinching his brow. “I _may_ have put all my eggs in one basket when it came to building my case, and that _may_ have backfired on me.”

“Serves you right,” Seungcheol snaps, at the same moment Jihoon says, “We’re sorry to hear that.”

Jeonghan frowns seriously at them, but continues.

“I’m new here and whatever weight I carried with the guys down at Narcotics, I’ve lost with the mistrial. But I’m not giving up—and from what I’ve heard about you guys—you’re not the type to give in so easily either. This guy is scum and he should be rotting in a jail cell—not playing high stakes poker every weekend laughing at how nobody has managed to pin anything on him. I’m not asking you to roll up to his house and arrest him tomorrow—I’m just asking if you’d look into him during the course of your own investigation. Maybe you find something I can use, and maybe the next time you need an arrest warrant in the middle of the night I know which judge isn’t going to mind being woken up.”

There's a long, amused minute of silence while Jihoon sips his coffee and Seungcheol indulges in another donut.

Jeonghan clearly operates under the _‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine’_ philosophy and although Jihoon doesn’t think it’s the best for solving crimes and sentencing criminals, he can see that it will benefit them in the long run.  

“Alright,” Jihoon says, taking a breath and looking to Seungcheol, who nods. “Deal.”

* * *

 

“I knew he was lying.” Seungcheol exclaims two hours later, walking into the bullpen and throwing a photograph down on Jihoon’s desk. “Look familiar to you?”

Jihoon sets down his cup and drags the picture closer.

It’s from the file Jeonghan gave them; a black and white surveillance image of Yoon Tae-Young in his local café, stubbing a cigarette out in the ash tray on his table. Across from him, two men sit; bodyguards or lieutenants of his crime ring, Jihoon assumes.

Scanning the photograph several times, nothing sticks out to him immediately. “What am I looking for exactly? Who’s lying?”

Seungcheol hovers his finger over one of the men seated across from Tae-Young. A stocky fella with dark, cropped hair, a heavy looking watch on his wrist. Now that Jihoon’s _focusing_ on him, the man’s face is strangely _familiar_.

“I’ve seen him before.” Jihoon pauses, looking up at Seungcheol with pleased astonishment. “Wait. Where have I seen him before?”

Seungcheol taps the image with his finger. “That’s _Jin-ho_. Remember that hostile barman we questioned about Sehun a while back.”

“Shit, _yeah_!” Jihoon gasps, recalling it all now.

Jin-Ho was one of the first people they’d interviewed over the Bridge Murders. The flattened packet of matches in Sehun’s pocket had lead them to a bar, and to the barman, who Jihoon recalls being particularly anxious about having cops on the premises.

And, Of course he would be—if he’s involved in running a secret drug empire on the side.

“And get this,” Seungcheol goes on, slapping a print out of several telephone numbers down on the desk. “The telecom company just came through with a list of the last few numbers dialled from the phone booth Hyung-Sik was shot it. He made one call to a burn phone, a call to his girlfriend, and a call to Jin-Ho’s bar. The last call was ten minutes before he was gunned down. I don’t think _that’s_ a coincidence.”

“Why would he call Jin-Ho’s?” Jihoon asks out loud, watching his partner pace restlessly between their desks. “He’s going to testify against these guys—why alert them?”

Seungcheol turns and points a finger at the photograph. “Because he was never planning on testifying. Hyung-Sik had slipped protective custody, he was running, going underground. The deal with the DA was a bust and he was never _going_ to take the stand—but he had to check in with his crew—make sure _they_ knew that. So he wouldn’t be a target.”

Jihoon clicks his fingers in realisation. “But Jin-ho had his doubts—he had to make sure Hyung-Sik wouldn’t be around to name any names.”

“Exactly.” Seungcheol says, finally coming to stand at the foot of Jihoon’s desk. “So—whaddya think cupcake? Should we pay Jin-Ho another visit?”

Jihoon glances up and smiles at Seungcheol, who grins back.

It’s such a relief to have Seungcheol calling him wonderful, ridiculous pet names again, sounding comfortable and fond and like himself. “Yeah.”

They go back to their respective tasks, placing calls to the ADA’s office and a few contacts they have in the narcotics division. They move with focus and determination, both viciously delighted to be on the right trail.

* * *

 

Seungcheol takes the safety off his Glock as he gets out of the car and enters the hotel; not because he thinks things will go badly, but because it's better to be safe than monumentally sorry.

According to an undercover informant, they know that on the fifteenth floor, Jin-Ho is meeting with a shady business man on behalf of Yoon Tae-Young to exchange information about an incoming shipment of cocaine for a very large sum of money, and Seungcheol and Jihoon are there just in time to fall in step next to him as he exits the elevator.

Jin-ho, for his part, doesn't falter when he sees Seungcheol, but his dark eyes get this glassy sheen of fear that Seungcheol finds immensely satisfying as he gently – oh so gently – takes his elbow and steers him into the men’s room near the elevators, locking the door behind them.

"Ah, officers." Jin-Ho starts, backing himself against the edge of the row of sinks, looking distinctly cornered. “I thought I answered your questions?”

Seungcheol almost wishes he didn't enjoy the look of terror on his face so very much.

"Indeed you did," Seungcheol says. He leans back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other, "but, we got some more since you were such a big fucking liar last time.”

He watches Jin-Ho's Adam's apple bob up and down. He's put on some weight since they last saw him last, and obviously isn’t used to wearing a suit outside of his barkeeping charade—his shirt looks tight around the collar, his suit-jacket stretched in the middle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t lie.” Jin-ho says.

Seungcheol sighs, and forces his anger back down. He has to work at it, he really has to fucking work.

“You told us the last time you saw Sehun, he dropped by to close his bar tab, but you failed to mention how the guy hassling him for money actually works for you. So, what’s the truth? Was he there to pay you back—or was he there to beg for more time?”

Jin-Ho chokes a little with panic, “What? No—that’s not what hap-”

“I think he’s going to lie to us again Cheol.” Jihoon interrupts with a drawl, not the least bit interested in excuses, though Seungcheol's sure that Jun-Ho has used the better part of the last month to assemble quite the collection of lies.

Jin-Ho’s face crumples into something desperate. “This—this is harassment. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Seungcheol rounds on Jin-Ho, gesturing with an accusing finger.  

“We _know_ you’re a fucking loan shark. We _know_ you ordered Hyung-Sik to rough Sehun up and get your money back when he couldn’t pay. We know you arranged the hit on Hyung-Sik when he got caught, cause you knew it would be your neck on the line if he testified in court. We know you’re working for Yoon Tae-Young.”

Jin-Ho straightens up like someone's driven a metal rod into his spine; his face twisting up in what Seungcheol can't be sure is panic or rage. It's likely both. "I don’t—I don’t know who that is.”

“I knew you smelt like bullshit from the start.” Seungcheol growls, grabbing him by the back of his jacket and hauling him out of the bathroom.

* * *

 

Kwon Jin-Ho is left to sweat in his own interview room for two and a half hours before Seungcheol and Jihoon enter. He stands immediately.

"This is bullshit," he shouts. "It's been three fucking hours!"

"We needed to get a few facts straight, Mr Kwon," Jihoon tells him pleasantly as he sits down.

Jin-ho slowly sinks back into his own chair, glancing between them.

"And it's barely been two and a half," Seungcheol quips, sitting down on the edge of the table. There’s plenty of chairs, but he wants to _loom_ over Jin-ho.

"Still too fucking long," the man grumbles, rubbing his wrist in anger, or maybe anxiety.

Seungcheol can almost feel the Captain and the ADA’s eyes on his back as he starts his line of questioning strong. It’s more than just their own case hanging in the line here.

“Nervous? Worried that Tae-Young’s gonna to find out we’ve hauled you in, gonna start wondering what exactly you’re _sharing_ with us?” Seungcheol asks the question with a perfect balance of teasing and curiosity.

Jin-ho opens his mouth, then wisely shuts it again without saying anything.

Seungcheol scoffs. “Even if you _don’t_ tell us anything—he’s never going to be 100% sure you didn’t. In 24 hours, we’ll have no choice but to release you—and then he’ll be watching you closely—always suspecting. It’s almost like a death sentence, dragging you in here. Isn’t it?”

“I’m not scared of Tae-Young.” Jin-Ho snaps, losing his patience.

Seungcheol counts that as a victory.

“Thought you didn’t _know_ who Tae-Young was? Or was that just another lie?” Seungcheol elaborates dryly.

Jin-Ho tenses at his mistake, then visibly forces himself to relax, gaze turned aside just enough that he is glaring at the wall rather than face them.

Seungcheol can play this game all day but he'd prefer to move things along.

“So—was it you who loaned Sehun the money, or Yoon Tae-Young?”

“It was _me_ , okay. I lent Sehun money, “Jin-Ho says, his eyes narrowed like he's irritated to admit to that much. “But I never asked for it back, and there was no _deal_ between us. I’m not a loan shark. I was just trying to help him.”

Seungcheol snorts. The ‘ _yeah, we’ve heard that before_ ’ comment goes unsaid but Jin-Ho's face changes into something steely all the same.

“It’s the truth!” Jin-Ho grinds out.

Jihoon raises a careful hand. “You can appreciate how that sounds to us Mr Kwon. People don’t just loan out sums of money to people they barely know without asking for anything in return. Especially people of your _reputation_.” Jihoon reminds him, with that practiced smile of sympathy masking utterly unyielding resolve. 

Jin-Ho’s focus darts to Jihoon's face and his eyes narrow.

“Yeah—it sounds dumb, but it’s what happened.” He snarls. There is indignation in the straight line of his posture, and anger in the clench of his jaw. “Look, I knew he was in debt, I knew he’d lost him job, _and_ lost custody of his kid. I wanted to help him—that’s all.”

“But— _why_? Why would you feel responsible for helping Sehun?” Jihoon asks, keeping his voice measured and just a little gentle, if only to keep him talking.

Jihoon may not be a lawyer, he hasn't studied like Jeonghan has, but he always knows how to get them talking.  

Jin-Ho says nothing for a while, but his scowl drops into a melancholic expression.

Just when Seungcheol thinks he’s going to have to prod him to answer, the man shrugs, a strangely solemn gesture which looks weirdly out of place on him.

“He was a friend of my brother, Shonwu. I guess he reminded me of him a little, and I wanted to help him where I couldn’t help Shonwu.”

Jihoon and Seungcheol exchange significant glances, not certain they could buy into that with Jin-Ho’s penchant for bullshitting.

“And where is Shonwu now?” Seungcheol asks slowly, affecting boredom.  

“I don’t know—back home somewhere.” Jin-Ho huffs out. He rubs a hand over his forehead. “He got clean and left. I haven’t been in contact with him in five years.”

Jin-Ho’s face isn't giving anything away, and Seungcheol decides to let it go for the moment.

* * *

 

"What do you think?" Seungcheol asks as he joins Jihoon, Captain Namjoon and Jeonghan outside the room, closing the door behind him.

Jihoon watches Jin-Ho massage his temples through the two-way mirror and considers what he’s shared with them so far. They’ve been hitting him with questions and evidence for the better part of an hour and he’s _still_ sticking with his story.

“I know you don’t want to hear this fellas,” Captain Namjoon begins “But we can’t _actually_ put him at the scene of any of the crimes. He _might_ have ordered the hit on Hyung-Sik, but none of the witnesses at the scene saw the shooter. They didn’t even manage to give a clear description of the car _or_ the licence plate number.”

“And I doubt he’s our guy for the murders either.” Jihoon weighs in, failing to conceal the resignation in his voice. “He doesn’t fit the profile we’ve built for the serial killer.”

Not to mention, the first murder took place over a decade ago—when Jin-Ho would have been 19 years old. Jihoon’s struggling to see how at that age a clumsy thug like Jin-Ho could have orchestrated an elaborate murder, and then hid the evidence so _well_.

Jeonghan seems puzzled by the whole situation, and gives them a measured look. “So, what? You’re buying this shit about him _loaning_ Sehun money—just because he knew his junkie brother? The junkie brother he hasn’t spoken to in five years. Seems pretty farfetched.”

“Maybe.” Jihoon shrugs. He glances at Seungcheol and is surprised to see his mouth is set in a grim line. His eyes look distant. Turning to glance at Jin-Ho through the mirror again, he adds, “But, of all the excuses he could make—it seems like the weakest one to stick so stubbornly to.”

Seungcheol tips his head to the side, looking thoughtful. “That’s a good point.”

A second later, Mingyu comes around the corner waving a file. They all look over with expectation.

“I did that background check you wanted, but apart from some medical history—there isn’t much. He registered with his local health clinic seven years ago, has had two hospital stays for bullet wounds as a result of ‘muggings’ that he did _not_ wish to pursue charges on. He’s got a licence for a small semi-automatic that he keeps in a locked safe in his bar. If we had the gun, Wonwoo says he can run tests to check when it was fired last and if the bullet casings match the ones you gathered at the scene.”

“I’ll get a warrant to confiscate his gun.” Jeonghan says, pulling out his cell phone. Captain Namjoon gives a quick nod of acknowledgement to him, and Jeonghan steps away to make a phone call.

“Anything else?”

Mingyu glances down at his research and shrugs. “Nothing useful I think. His driving licence is registered to the apartment he lives in, and is _surprisingly_ clean—not even a single parking ticket. But there _was_ another licence registered to the same address back in 2013 for a Kwon Shonwu.”

“Guess he wasn’t lying about the younger brother who left for home.” Captain Namjoon quips.

Seungcheol doesn’t appear convinced, lips pursed in thought. “What’s the DOB on the brother’s licence?” He asks.

“Ninth of July, 1991.” Mingyu answers, and Seungcheol lifts his head, his gaze suddenly sharp with fresh awareness. 

“That would make Shonwu twenty-seven years old now,” Seungcheol tells them, sounding distant. Jihoon can see his mind racing. “—and Jin-Ho said the last time he saw him was five years ago, which would have made him—”

“Twenty-two.” Jihoon answers slowly, feeling perplexed. “What’s your point?”

Seungcheol licks his lips, agitated. A second later, he’s striding down the corridor with purpose, and Jihoon has no _choice_ but to follow him, curious.

He’s curiouser still when Seungcheol begins sorting through the clutter on his desk, looking for _something_.

“Cheol? What’s up?” Jihoon asks, watching case files scatter across the untidy surface.

Seungcheol stops his frantic search to rest his hands on the desk. His eyes dart back and forth quickly, like he’s replaying something in his head, like he's seeing something Jihoon can't.

“All our victims were killed between the ages of twenty-one to twenty-seven. _Right_?” He finally says.

“Right.” Jihoon agrees with a nod. “ _And_?”

“And—four of them are John Doe’s.” Seungcheol says furiously, giving up on his search and striding over to the bulletin board instead. He rips three of pictures of their John Doe victims stuck to the board, not bothering to remove the thumb tacks first.  

“Our first John-Doe was killed over a decade ago, so that rules him out. But the other three were all killed within the last five years. Jin-ho says his brother was friends with Sehun, that he _knew_ him and that he left town after he got _clean_. How much do you want to bet that the reason Jin-Ho hasn’t seen his brother in five years isn’t because he left town, but because he’s been dead.”

Jihoon is suddenly struck by a terrible thought. “Oh my god.”

* * *

 

Seungcheol renters the interrogation room alone this time, to find Jin-Ho lounging back in his seat, arms crossed, more irritated and edgy than when they left.

Seungcheol takes a seat across from him, sets his case file to the side and thrusts the first photograph across the table. “Recognise this guy?”

It takes a minute of weighted silence, but Jin-Ho uncrosses his arms and leans forward, a scowl affixed to his face.

Eyes dance over the face in the picture, then Jin-Ho shakes his head.

Seungcheol grabs the second picture, holds it out across the table. “This guy?”

“No. Never seen him.” Jin-Ho says, sounding earnest and looking lost.

Seungcheol takes a deep breath and lifts the last photograph, placing it almost hesitantly in front of Jin-Ho. “What about this guy?”

Recognition flickers across Jin-Ho’s face. He stares at the photograph for a long time, unblinking. He picks it up with shaky fingers, then has to take a breath, fingers going tight on the crumpled paper.

 _“Shonwu.”_ He chokes.

Seungcheol lets out a controlled sigh; it’s just as he thought.

He slides the victims case file across the table and flips it open wearily, thinking of how to phrase what he says next.

Jin-Ho may be a criminal and a liar, but nobody likes to hear about their dead baby brother in graphic detail. It should go without saying – even Hallmark doesn’t make a card for this kind of thing.

“Nobody reported him missing, and he didn’t have a criminal record” Seungcheol begins tentatively, glancing down at the blank spaces in the case file where the victim’s particulars are supposed to be. “So his prints weren’t in the database. When nobody came forward to claim the body, he was marked as a John Doe. That was approximately five years ago.”

“He was supposed to go back home.” Jin-Ho says. There's a tired, almost angry sincerity there, under the low gravel burn of his voice. “He told me he was going back home to Yangsan—that he was getting clean and starting afresh. He _told_ me not to contact him, said me and my lifestyle were a bad influence and staying in touch would make him relapse.” He shakes his head as if to make the memory go away.

Seungcheol clears his throat and starts again, voice a little quieter. “Well, about five years ago—just like Sehun, someone strangled him with their hands, then strangled his cooling dead body with a rope—then hung him off a bridge. You got any idea—who would want to do that?”

Jin-Ho’s dark eyes glitter as he listens. “No.” He says thickly, then clutches his head, like all the memories he's managed to block out are stabbing there way back in. Only this time brighter and more painful.

“He was supposed to go home.” Jin-Ho repeats quietly.

There's no emotion under the words that Seungcheol could name, but the closest thing it sounds like is grief.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry Jihoon” Seungcheol mumbles.

Jihoon’s head snaps up from where he’s typing out his report, filling in recently unknown data in  Kwon Shonwu’s case file. “What for?”

Seungcheol finishes pinning the last victim’s photograph back on their board and turns to face him. “I was hoping Jin-Ho would be the break we needed to solve this. But even though we’ve identified one of the victims, we’re still no closer to figuring out the sick fuck who’s doing this.” He sighs, looking resigned.

Jihoon frowns at that. He’s not sure either of them should be feeling bleak about this unlikely turn.

Sure, Jin-Ho’s not going to lead them to their serial killer, but they’ve got one less John Doe on their hands, a new lead to investigate and who _knows_ —maybe seeing his baby brothers autopsy photograph is enough to convince Jin-Ho to make a deal with the ADA and testify against Tae-Young.

Jihoon quickly saves the report on his desktop and stands to join his partner at the bulletin board.

“I think we got a better result than we could have hoped for, Cheollie. We’ve got a new lead by identifying Shonwu, and if Jin-Ho strikes a deal with ADA—that’s potentially a few more assholes off the streets.”

Seungcheol looks at him in surprise but can’t seem to muster an argument against that.

“Yeah. I know. I just—” Seungcheol’s face darkens – he’s flushing, Seungcheol is  _flushing_  – “I _know_ how important this case is to you. I wanted to find something crucial you could use.”

Seungcheol does look away then, for just a second.

Jihoon feels a little bit like he's been punched, because he doesn't want this to just be about him.

He has a hand on Seungcheol's arm before he realises, and then can't make himself let go. He can feel where Seungcheol is warm under the cotton. “Look—I know that I can get _obsessed_ about things and fixate on details like nothing else is important. But that’s not who I _want_ to be. Last weekend, you stopped me from spending all my free time working on the case—and I appreciated that. I had fun for once, and I got to spend time with you away from work, and although I enjoy my job—I want more of that in my life.”

The hint of a smirk flickers across Seungcheol’s handsome features before he schools it into something more considering.

“More _fun_ —or more spending time with me?” Seungcheol says, looking for all the world like he wants it to be the latter.

Jihoon smiles and squeezes his arm. “I always have fun when I’m with you.”

Seungcheol gives him this look like he’s just grown three extra heads or something. It isn’t an unfamiliar look, but it still makes Jihoon blush and clear his throat awkwardly.

“How about we call it a day?” Jihoon mumbles, grip on Seungcheol’s arm withdrawing as he steps back towards his desk. He can hear Seungcheol’s amused snort from behind him as he fetches his jacket.

“Really? I never thought I’d see the day where _you’d_ be the one calling it a day.”

Jihoon levels him an unimpressed look over his shoulder. “Well, I’m tired—and hungry.”

Seungcheol head tilts very slowly to the side, in surprise. “You’re admitting to being hungry too? _Jesus_. Who are you and what have you done to my Jihoon?”

Jihoon huffs air through his nose and debates whether he should lob the stapler or his cold mug of coffee at his partners head.

“Are you going to feed me or what?” Jihoon knows he’s perilously close to whining.

“Absolutely.” Seungcheol breaks into a wide grin. He half drags Jihoon to the elevator, forcing the shorter man in before he can change his mind. “I’m going to feed the hell out of you.”

* * *

 

When Seungcheol pulls up outside his house, he’s never more thankful to have a place so close to work. It’s been a trying day, and he’s exhausted.

Jihoon unbuckles his belt as Seungcheol keys the engine off and holds a hand out towards him. “Bright and early tomorrow, yeah?”

Seungcheol glances down at Jihoon’s outstretched hand and realises Jihoon means for him to hand over the car keys, so Jihoon can drive himself home.

Seungcheol tenses, keys warm and sticky in his hand. “You’re not staying?”

Jihoon blushes, seemingly flustered by the question. “I have my own apartment. I should _probably_ sleep in it once in a while. God knows I pay enough for it.” He laughs weakly. The flush has crept down his throat, pinked the shells of his ears.

Seungcheol levels an assessing, narrow-eyed look that only serves to make Jihoon squirm more uncomfortably in his seat.

“What?”

Instead of handing the keys over, Seungcheol pockets them, climbs out of the drivers’ seat—then hustles Jihoon out of the car and into his flat.

To anyone looking outside their window that very moment, it might look like there’s an abduction in progress, but Seungcheol doesn’t care. He’s worked too damn hard at this for Jihoon to start building walls between them.

“Don’t you want your own space?” Jihoon argues as he’s shoved gently over the threshold.

“Nope.” Seungcheol says simply, kicking the door shut behind him. He steps up to his partner and leans into his space, noting the dark flush of Jihoon's cheeks, the full bottom lip. The way he pouts when he's pissed off and feeling off kilter. “You _belong_ in my space. I like having you in my space. Got it?”

Jihoon looks up and meets Seungcheol's eyes. There's confusion there, mixed with palpable relief, and something else that's raw and hard to look away from.

“Okay.” Jihoon nods and drops his eyes to the floor.

Between one moment and the next, Jihoon’s punching him in the shoulder, then disappearing into the living room, mumbling under his breath about the indignity of being manhandled everywhere.

Seungcheol grins to himself as he locks and deadbolts the door. He turns on a couple of lamps that bathe the living room in a cheery yellow glow before he automatically goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge.

"You want a beer?"

"Nah, I'm beat. I'm just going to crash out." Jihoon answers, already mumbling sleepily.

Seungcheol pushes the fridge door shut and moves back into the living room. His partner is sprawled out on the couch, face down in a throw pillow, still fully dressed.

Seungcheol moves to his side and tugs at Jihoon's jacket. "Come on, cupcake. Take your jacket off at least, you'll sleep better."

Jihoon grumbles unhappily but lets Seungcheol pull the heavy leather jacket from his shoulder. Seungcheol unties his boots next, and carefully pulls them off Jihoon's feet. His partner has more energy than anyone he's ever known, but when he crashes he’s like a little kid—completely out of it and 100% deadweight.

Seungcheol grabs a blanket from the armrest to drape it loosely over his partner's frame, then changes his mind at the last minute and tosses it aside.

“Get up.” He says, taking hold of Jihoon’s arm and tugging him up.

“ _Why_?” There's an unhappy whine there.

“Come on, sleepy,” Seungcheol says cajolingly, helping him up. “No more couch for you. You’re getting the other side of the bed.”

Instantly, Jihoon tenses, face twisting into an expression of such shock, like Seungcheol has suggested they 69 on the lawn for all the neighbours to see.

“I’m, I’m okay on the couch.” Jihoon murmurs.

“No, you’re not.” Seungcheol says firmly. “I’ve just decided to stop asking you things and just make you do them instead. It’s for the best.”

Seungcheol counts it as a triumph when Jihoon lets himself be shepherded to the bedroom without much complaint. And Jihoon _must_ be wrecked, cause he follows Seungcheol like a tame little lamb, just stands there while Seungcheol peels him out of his clothes and helps him into an oversized T-shirt.

“I’m sure this is counts as coercion or something.” Jihoon mumbles groggily, as Seungcheol tucks him in to bed.

“Yeah, well—you can arrest me for it in the morning.” Seungcheol chuckles, staring down fondly at his partner.

Seungcheol strips out of his work clothes quickly, pulling on soft drawstring pants and a worn tee.

As much fun as it might be to scandalize Jihoon by sleeping in the nude, Seungcheol decides it isn't the opportune time for teasing, and he doesn't want to risk Jihoon bolting to the couch for any reason.

* * *

 

Sharing a bed with Seungcheol is a surreal and frankly, sleepless experience.

It could be the thoughts of their case keeping Jihoon awake, just as easily as it could be the fact that Seungcheol chooses to sleep with the air-con on full blast and wrap himself in one billion blankets instead of turning it down and sleeping with one. But an avalanche of blankets or not, Jihoon is just not used to sharing a bed. Perhaps it's only reasonable that he finds himself wide awake as midnight stretches endless around him.

More likely it's got nothing to do with those things, and everything to do with  _Seungcheol_ , there in the bed with him.

They aren't touching—the bed is large enough to comfortably accommodate both of them—but Seungcheol's warmth is still potent beside him. The handspan of space between them is not enough for Jihoon to pretend he's in this bed alone.

Worse, the moonlight sneaking through the nearest window gives him a remarkably clear view of Seungcheol's face.

His partner is a handsome man even under trying circumstances, but here. Here, features lax with sleep, he is devastatingly gorgeous.

The sight makes Jihoon's chest _ache_.

Despite his predictions on the matter, Seungcheol doesn't snore. His chest rises and falls with quiet breaths, a steady rhythm that calms Jihoon even if it doesn’t lull him to sleep.

And it's nice, in a way—being able to watch him like this without fear of rebuke.

Seungcheol is fast asleep, and there is no one to notice Jihoon watching his partner with far too much feeling. There is no one around to accuse him of being lost or lovesick.

No one besides himself.

And  _Jihoon_  is already aware he has a problem, thank you very much.

So, he doesn't expect to sleep.

He's fully prepared to count away the hours until dawn. But against all odds sleep overtakes him anyway and Jihoon wakes to the faint gray of reluctant daylight.

The first thing he notices is that he is warm. Blessedly, impossibly warm all the way from his chin to his toes. The air is chilly on his face where the bedclothes don't cover him, but he barely notices alongside the lazy heat suffusing him.

The second thing he notices is that he has gravitated across the narrow distance, directly into Seungcheol's space.

Directly into Seungcheol's arms.

 _Fuck_.

His face, chilly seconds before, flushes hot. He closes his eyes and wills his body to calm the fuck down.

Typically, his body doesn't listen, and he tries to remain perfectly still despite the frantic racing of his heart.

He knows he should extricate himself from Seungcheol's arms, but he can't bring himself to move.

Less to do with selfish indulgence, and more about fear: if he moves and Seungcheol wakes up, how’s he going to explain this?

Better to keep still and wait for Seungcheol to shift in his sleep. The arms holding him so tightly will have to loosen eventually, so Jihoon will simply wait for the right opportunity to retreat.

Also typically, the opportunity never comes.

One moment Seungcheol is asleep, holding him too close to escape discreetly. The next Seungcheol draws a long breath, coming quickly and obviously awake.

He lets go of Jihoon without giving any hint of surprise. As though there's nothing weird about waking with his partner curled like a stray kitten in his arms.

And—maybe there _isn't_.

Maybe everything is so platonic between them that Seungcheol doesn’t see anything intimate or inappropriate about this whole situation.

The thought should probably relieve him, but somehow it doesn't.

Instead it ignites a low simmer of rejected hurt in Jihoon's chest.

He feigns sleep as Seungcheol rolls out of bed, instantly missing the contained inferno of body heat. There is a lengthy rustling of fabric and furniture as Seungcheol dresses and prepares for the day.

Strange, imperfect silence.

The sound of his partner’s morning routine goes a long way toward calming Jihoon's nerves, until he hears footsteps drawing close, and then true quiet.

He can feel Seungcheol’s eyes on him now, and wonders how he looks. A sleep-tousled mess no doubt; mouth slightly parted, still flushed with sleep, buried in blankets that don’t belong to him.

He must look fucking ridiculous.

He must be a monstrous sight to behold.

So, he just can't understand why Seungcheol stares at him in silence for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) BLUE BALLS. Honestly, I really enjoy writing this, I do not enjoy the blue balls. I guess it will make the smutty times more special when they finally get to it. Sigh.  
> 2) Is the case making sense? It takes ages writing each chapter cause I have to revisit previous details to make sure I'm not contradicting myself with evidence etc. It's damn hard, and I have no idea how detective novels do it so flawlessly. Not that I read many mind you...I mostly get my ideas from TV shows, Law and Order etc. I hope the case is followable and not too ridiculous cause I need it to make sense in the end.   
> 3) Jihoon in oversized anything is my kink. It's Seungcheol's too obviously.   
> 4) Thank you for reading mammoth chapter! Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is so appreciated!


	8. Drunk and Disorderly

“So, how are things with Jihoon?” Namjoon asks out of the blue.

The bar they are in is dimly lit, and in their little corner booth the sounds of the bar seem muted, unobtrusive. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

Seungcheol wipes the foam from his mouth and nods. “Great. Couldn’t ask for a better, more hardworking partner.”

“Oh, great.” Namjoon says, looking at Seungcheol with dark, solemn eyes. “It’s good to see that you’re getting along so _well_.”  

There's a quiet, strangely serious tone to the words. It makes Seungcheol think Namjoon means something more than what he’s saying.

The captain is silent for a very long time as he sips his beer, then at last he says, “So, you know how I play golf with the commissioner and the mayor once a month?”

“I heard ‘playing golf’ is a bit of a stretch. Aren’t you the commissioner’s _caddy_?” Seungcheol pipes in.

Namjoon very obviously doesn’t comment on that.

“Well there was a very interesting topic of conversation last time: about a position coming up for grabs with special division. It’s a very prestigious promotion that only comes up once in a blue moon and they’re looking for a suitable candidate. Now, _I’d_ hate to see you go, but the commissioner wanted an interest check—”

“Not interested.” Seungcheol says.

His voice is harsher than he means it to be, and Namjoon catches the tone instantly, a knowing look in his eyes.

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shrugs one shoulder and looks away. “I’m happy where I am. Never been happier actually. I think homicide is my true career calling.”

Namjoon is leaning on the table now, attention focused on him completely. “Is it Homicide that’s making you happy—or is it _Jihoon_?”

Seungcheol tries not to smile. He _knew_ the captain was acting cagey when he suggested they grab a drink after work.

He sips his beer slowly, simply to buy time, allowing a sense of distraction to show on his face.

He’s not in the mood to discuss his personal life even if Namjoon is a friend and means well. Seungcheol _knows_  he means well, and that's why he avoids lying to him if he can.

“I’m not sure I understand Joon.”

Namjoon just gives him a patented _‘You’re not this dumb’_ look across the table, and drains the rest of his beer.

“Alright, Seungcheol. I just need to know something—as your _friend_ , not your captain—are you and Jihoon sleeping together?” He finally asks, and it's not the question Seungcheol's been expecting, but it's not really a surprise either. The captain had phoned Seungcheol’s home early one morning and Jihoon had been half asleep and answered the bedside phone on instinct before handing it over to Seungcheol.

Now everyone thinks they’re sleeping together.

Which they are, to be completely honest—just not in _that_ way.

“Well, we are _technically_ sleeping together.” Seungcheol replies, leaning back in his seat.

Namjoon looks shell shocked with his reply. “What? Seriously? You do realise there is a clear fraternization policy between polic-“

“We’re not having sex.” Seungcheol interjects sharply, looking his captain right in the eye. “We just share a bed, okay. His place is further than mine and it’s convenient that he stay over a few nights a week. That’s it.”

Namjoon looks unconvinced.  “So, you’re not _romantically_ involved?”

Seungcheol peers into his bottle, frowning. “No.”

The glib response has an edge of bitterness that Seungcheol doesn't even try to hide.

They haven’t done anything except spoon so far, and even that isn’t entirely consensual. Every night Jihoon finds his way into Seungcheol's arms, and every morning Seungcheol extricates himself and then jerks off in the shower.

It doesn't stop Seungcheol from wanting Jihoon. If anything, the unorthodox intimacy is making everything a whole lot harder. But each time it happens, there is the thrilling, guilty moment where Jihoon is sleeping peacefully in his arms and Seungcheol could almost pretend this belongs to him.

“No. We’re not romantically involved.” Seungcheol clarifies, taking a long pull of his beer.

Namjoon gives him a concerned look, all creased eyebrows and downturned lips. “Something tells me you’re hoping that will _change_.”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow that very eloquently conveys, _‘Are you sure you want me to answer that?’_

Namjoon nods as though it's taking considerable resolve for him not to stage some sort of Jihoon-related intervention here and now. 

“Listen, Cheol. I was a cop once too, you know.”

“Uhm. You’re still a cop _now_ Joon.” Seungcheol points out.

Namjoon looks a little overwhelmed for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, but what I _mean_ is—I have been in your _position_ before. Years ago, when I was on vice.” He leans forward, like he’s about to tell Seungcheol a secret. “Did I ever tell you about my partner Jin?”

“Briefly.” Seungcheol nods, fiddling with the torn label on his bottle. “You said he left the force to work in a private security firm, and it felt like _betrayal_.”

Namjoon nods very carefully. “Well—that much is true. But what you _don’t_ know is—I might not have given him much choice.”

Seungcheol gestures to the bartender for a fresh round of beers. He’s going to need some fortification to help him get through this conversation. A night at the bar isn’t supposed to be _this_ serious. “Oh, yeah? How so?”

Namjoon takes a slow breath, folding his arms on the table. “Jin and I were partners for eight years and, near the end of our partnership we had gotten pretty— _close_.”

Seungcheol leers at him across the table. “You were fucking.”

“At first—” Namjoon presses, not even pausing to acknowledge the interjection. “I thought it wouldn’t affect our partnership. I thought it was all under control. But the relationship you have with your partner is one of the _closest_ bonds you have in your entire life. Adding sexual intimacy into the mix really complicates things. Especially when you’re thrown in high pressure situations, your instincts are wired differently and whether you like it or not—you react unexpectedly to protect them.”

Seungcheol frowns, recognising his own recent lapse in behaviour regarding his partner. “What happened?”

“That’s not important.” Namjoon is quick to dismiss with a firm headshake. “What _is_ important is—I realised how bad it had gotten. How the relationship was affecting my duties and ultimately everyone’s safety. There were already rumours circulating about us, and the incident just made it worse. I ended up asking for a transfer, a new partner—to save _both_ our careers and—I guess he didn’t handle that well.”

“So, that’s why he left the force?” Seungcheol ventures.

“He never said as much—” Namjoon says, picking at the worn surface of the table with his nails, his mouth pulling down a little. “But it happened so soon after I transferred, that was my logical conclusion. Now whenever I think back I can’t help but accept—had I stopped myself from taking things so far with him back then, I may have still had his friendship today.”

He looks so miserable, Seungcheol is compelled to reach out to pat his hand.

“I’m sorry Joon, that sounds rough.” Seungcheol says quietly. He juggles words in his head before finally deciding to just dive in, “But that’s _not_ going to happen to me and Jihoon. What we have—is built to last.” He says, saluting Namjoon with his beer before taking a gulp.  

It’s completely irrational, of course. They’ve only been partners for six months; such blind faith doesn’t come quickly or easily.

There hasn’t been a “moment of truth” between the two of them, as Namjoon calls it—the moment when you truly learn what it means to have another man’s back.

Every partnership has a moment of truth—when you’re put in a situation that determines how the rest of your partnership will play out. You may stick up for each other, take a bullet for the other, keep a secret, whatever it is—it’s _defining_. It can make or break your partnership.

Namjoon laughs a little, shaking his head. “Would you take a bullet for him?”

Seungcheol nods without hesitation. All the late nights and coffee runs mean nothing if they can’t protect each other.

Namjoon laughs ruefully. “You say that now because you’ve never done it. Come back in another six months and we’ll see if you’re so quick to answer.”

“We’re _partners_. I would shoot _you_ if I had to.” Seungcheol grins around the lip of his glass, watching in amusement as Namjoon’s face changes from confused to insulted.

“And do you know how _Jihoon_ would act in return? Would he kill a man for _you_?”

“I—” Seungcheol’s mouth twitches. He shrugs, dragging a finger through a ring of moisture left on the table from a glass. “He’d probably try and talk them into surrendering first, cause he belongs to the ‘words are more powerful than weapons’ school of thought. But if it came down to it— _yeah_ , he would.”

Namjoon smirks into his own beer. “You’re still young, Dimples, and I admire the faith you have in Detective Lee. I just hope your feelings for him don’t get you in trouble some day.”

* * *

 

For several different ulterior motives, Jihoon is a little disappointed Seungcheol’s bed isn’t smaller.

His feet _really_ do get cold at night and Seungcheol makes an amazing furnace. The other ulterior motives however, don’t bear thinking about.

Jihoon has always told himself that their arrangement is nothing more than literally sleeping together, caught close around each other in the night and breaking apart in silence in the morning. Something meant to go by unacknowledged, always.

But the first time Jihoon wakes with his cock hard, he is _mortified_.

Held so close against his partner's chest, chin tucked beneath Seungcheol's jaw, arms wedged firmly between them—he is wrapped so tightly in his partner’s embrace that it seems impossible for Seungcheol to mistake the sensation.

Jihoon _knows_ he should remove himself from this bed while there's still a chance Seungcheol is asleep. It’s still early. He can still extricate himself, begin his day, and pretend desperately that this didn’t happen.

Instead he lies there in Seungcheol's arms, motionless and flushed with shame.

When Seungcheol insisted he wasn’t imposing, he probably didn’t have _this_ circumstance in mind.

Seungcheol takes no notice of Jihoon’s erection when he eventually stirs a few minutes later. In fact, he doesn’t even jolt back in surprise. He just unwinds and disentangles himself and heads for the shower.

It's possible he really  _didn't_  notice, though Jihoon is doubtful. Seungcheol hasn’t become a detective by being oblivious to the world around him. It would seem, however unlikely, that the guy simply doesn’t care.

Fortunate, since the occurrence doesn't remain an isolated incident.

Maybe it's a function of the unlikely comfort he feels in Seungcheol's arms; the sense of security and safety is novel, and it grows with every passing day. Or more likely it's simple biology; Jihoon hasn’t been laid in a while and sleeping next to an impossibly hot guy is _bound_ to affect him.

Every time it happens and goes unnoticed, Jihoon’s mortification eases. Seungcheol never calls him out, and as neither of them acknowledge the awkwardness, it gradually stops being awkward at all.

Then comes the morning when Jihoon wakes and  _Seungcheol_  is hard and— _fuck_.

Seungcheol is breathing slow and steady, curled close along Jihoon's back without so much as a sliver of space between them. Their proximity makes it impossible to ignore the stiff nudge of Seungcheol's cock, and the sensation tips Jihoon from sleepy fog to startled wakefulness in a jarring instant.

God, it shouldn't _feel_ this good.

It shouldn’t be raising heat to his face and hunger beneath his skin.

And Jihoon _definitely_ shouldn’t be rolling his ass back against it. But he _is_ —Jesus Christ, he can’t help himself.

The effort earns him a gravelled groan and a tightening of the arms holding him.

Seungcheol's breath is warm along his throat, faster now. There's a forward stutter of hips, clearly unintentional. And then— _fuck_ —Seungcheol makes an inarticulate sound and nuzzles at Jihoon's nape, presses a sleepy kiss just beneath the hinge of his jaw.

Jihoon closes his eyes, biting his bottom lip hard to keep from whimpering.

Seungcheol's entire body tenses a moment later. There's sudden wakefulness in the way he eases back. He takes his hands carefully off Jihoon, retreating without a word. Jihoon feigns sleep. The alternative is begging Seungcheol  _not to stop_ , and Jihoon may be desperate, but he isn't quite _that_ stupid.

* * *

 

When Jihoon makes his way into the living area later and notices that Seungcheol is gone, he tries not to worry.

Seungcheol’s probably out for a jog or grabbing the paper or something.

He takes a quick shower, checks his emails and starts getting ready for the day. It’s nothing but mundane until, of course, Seungcheol walks in on him ironing his pants, which means he isn’t wearing them.

“Hey Jihoonie—” Seungcheol freezes in the doorway, two coffee cups in hand.

Jihoon clenches the handle of the iron and feels Seungcheol’s eyes taking in the scene, taking in  _him_ — frowning there in a crisp white shirt and socks…. and boxer briefs with tiny rubber ducks printed on them.

“Rubber ducks,” Seungcheol notes. He doesn’t appear to be making fun of him. “Jihoonie,” he says, “that is  _precious_.”

Instead of being indignant or irritated, Jihoon feels heat prickle down his spine.

“I like them because the material is soft—not because of the print. _Okay_.”

He thinks he sounds very calm considering he’s standing there with tiny rubber ducks on his underwear, hair still untamed and going three ways at once.

“Yeah, yeah—cause you have a sensitive dick. I remember.” Seungcheol says, all bland pleasantry layered over teasing.

Jihoon wants to grumble at him to shut up, but he only sighs in relief.

Seungcheol’s cool; everything’s fine. They’re clearly going to skip right past the erection awkwardness of last night and Jihoon’s fine with that.

When Seungcheol holds out a cup of coffee for him, Jihoon turns off the iron and accepts it graciously, making some effort at acting like an adult human being, but not entirely sure he is succeeding with his rubber duckies.

“Why’d you go out for coffee?” Jihoon asks after a quiet minute. “Don’t you have a machine here?”

“I ran out of pods—so I went out. Couldn’t have my little muffin missing his caffeine fix in the morning.” Seungcheol coos, reaching over to pinch Jihoon's cheek in a manner he _probably_ should be taking offense to.

He doesn't.

He just grunts and rolls his eyes, and takes his coffee to the bedroom to finish changing.

* * *

 

Seungcheol sets his coffee down and leans back against the rounded cushion of the booth. He'd deliberately chosen an out of the way table near the back, but it doesn't seem to be making any difference. The looks he’s getting are already enough to make him wish they'd stayed at the station.

He’d figured the hype and popularity surrounding him would eventually die off, and he could go back to not being recognised everywhere he went. But people in Busan seem to have amazing long term memories, and being stared at by a bunch of high school students was clearly on the agenda for today.

"Don't these kids have classes to go to?" Jihoon grumbles as a waitress brings him another coffee. He smiles warmly and takes a sip, ignoring Seungcheol's haphazard shrug. “No offence Seungcheol—you’re a great partner—but the creepy stalking fan club you have nullifies almost _all_ of your good qualities.”

In retaliation for that, Seungcheol lets the cappuccino foam linger on the tip of Jihoon's nose for a second longer than necessary before reaching over and wiping it off.

The eruption of giggles at the table behind them could be about something else entirely, but Seungcheol suspects it isn't.

Jihoon looks at him as if he is considering removing Seungcheol's entire hand, and not just the offending finger.

“Jihoonie, you do realise that my fan club is your fan club _too_. We’re partners, we’re mutually inclusive.” Seungcheol says, licking the whipped cream off the tip of his finger with a grin. Not bad.

A small answering smile flickers at the corner of Jihoon’s mouth as he sips his coffee. “I’ll pass. You can keep your creepy stalkers and body fluid laden fan-mail, thank you very much. I’d rather be a relative unknown then have a Twitter fan-account dedicated to what my ass looks like in my uniform.” He giggles, lifting his mug to his mouth again.

Seungcheol does a double take. “Wait, what? A Twitter _what_?”

Jihoon squints at him warily and takes another long swallow of coffee.

“You knew that, didn’t you?” He says, instinctively looking around to make sure no one's close enough to hear them. “You must have known about the Twitter account they have—for your _ass_?”

Seungcheol shakes his head numbly, “No. I really didn’t.”

Jihoon winces, sitting upright in his seat. “Oh, erm well. It exists. And gets updated— _daily_.”

Seungcheol watches as Jihoon's eyes dart awkwardly over his shoulder, scanning the coffee shop or maybe just avoiding his gaze. “Yanno, I’m beginning to think someone at the station runs it, because they have amazing close ups of your ass at angles that shouldn’t be possible unless they were _right_ behind you.”

Seungcheol can't tell if Jihoon is joking or not, but more importantly—how the hell does Jihoon even _know_ about this page?

“You seem to know a lot about this. Are you a _follower_ of this account?”

“No. No—” Jihoon sputters and swallows awkwardly. After a minute of coughing and back patting, he touches his napkin lightly to his lips and fixes his dark eyes on Seungcheol. “I’ve just _heard_ about it.”

Seungcheol arches an eyebrow, sceptical. “But you said they have amazing close ups that shouldn’t be possible unless they were right behind me—how would you _know_ that unless you _saw_ the photographs?”

He’s grinning wildly and feeling just a little bit reckless. But Jihoon looks up at him with such wide, anxious eyes that he finds himself resisting the urge to gather him in bone crushing hug.

“I—I just heard that from someone else. I never saw it or anything. Like, c’mon—why would I follow a twitter page dedicated to your ass?”

Seungcheol watches as his partner stammers through his answer and conceals his amusement by taking a sip of coffee.

“That’s a good point.” He nods, setting his cup down again. “After all, why would you go on twitter when you can just stare at my ass in person instead.”

Jihoon sputters something indignant and looks away, a hint of self-consciousness in his profile.

Seungcheol lets himself enjoy the tension growing in Jihoon’s shoulders for a moment longer before he reminds himself that winding Jihoon up is actually _counter_ to his mission, here.

He’d picked the coffee shop for lunch because he wanted somewhere they could go and talk, because the events of last night have been sitting there between them all day, untouched, unexamined, and Seungcheol is anxious to deal with what happened.

In the meantime, their rhythm has been slightly off all morning, and Seungcheol doesn't think it has as much to do with the people at the next table staring at them as it does with what happened in the night.

To deflect, Seungcheol snags another finger of whipped cream off Jihoon's cup and licks it casually. He feels a flare of triumph as Jihoon’s flips and punches him in the arm.

“You giant—” Jihoon cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. “God, you’re such a _child_!” He says, his nose turning pink even as he scowls.

Seungcheol laughs and stretches his arm along the back of the booth behind Jihoon's head.

That’s better. Much better.

His partner is now a small and warm and relaxed ball of huffiness against his side, and Seungcheol gets comfortable in spite of himself.

“What were _you_ like as a child?”

Jihoon pauses for a moment to raises an eyebrow at Seungcheol, his hand hovering over his cup. “Is this some kind of psyche analysis? Or are you just trying to find new and creative ways to tease me?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, chuckling. “No. I was just wondering if what I imagined was accurate. I was imagining you riding around on a little police tricycle, with your tiny plastic badge and baton, taking on kids three times your size and trying to ‘rest them’ for being bad.”

Jihoon snorts messy laughter through his nose.

“No, I wasn’t that brave.” He pauses, obviously collecting his thoughts. “I was a boring kid, with an over-active imagination. I wanted to be a palaeontologist up until I was eleven.”

“ _Really_? I’m not sure if I can see you pouring over fossilized dinosaur droppings day in and day out,”

Jihoon jerks his chin out. “I was pretty serious about it, actually. I made my parents take me to _all_ the exhibits in all the museums, I watched all the dinosaur related movies religiously and even saved up my pocket money so I could go to Fossil camp.”

“ _Fossil camp_?” Seungcheol echoes dryly.

“Yeah. It was this summer school, for wannabe palaeontologists.” Jihoon says, his expression keen for a moment. “We’d basically dig holes in the ground and search for dinosaurs. We never found anything obviously, or at least—nothing that _hadn’t_ been planted by the camp instructor beforehand. But when you’re nine years old, you don’t know any better. So, I’d actually thought I found a dinosaur bone, when it had just been a prop.” He finishes, ducking his head.

Seungcheol grins and reaches out, tips Jihoon’s chin up. “You little _nerd_.”

The left corner of Jihoon's mouth inches up minutely, a reluctant acknowledgement. “I guess I _was_ a nerd.” He says, expression full of tolerant good humour. “Actually, now that I think about—I _still_ am a nerd. I still really love dinosaurs.”

They both laugh at that, then Jihoon nudges his foot pointedly. 

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, what kind of kid were you?” Jihoon asks, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Were you the stereotypical cop’s son? A well behaved, model student at home—who snuck out to smoke his secret stash of weed with his troublesome friends.”

Seungcheol snorts. “Oh, Jihoonie, really? Surely you’re not _that_ narrow-minded? I never did weed.”

“My mistake.” Jihoon rolls his eyes.

“I was more partial to stealing cars actually.” Seungcheol adds.

Jihoon pulls back slightly and smirks. “Is that so. And what did your cop dad say to that?”

Seungcheol shrugs, “Nothing. He never found out. I was just _that_ good.”

There is an audible smirk in Jihoon's voice when he retorts, “And now you’re a cop, on the opposite side of the law. What a _transformation_.”

“Yup.” Seungcheol nods smugly. “Had I not reigned myself in back then— _you never know_. I could have been a gun totting leader of a biker gang, or maybe a bank robber—or hell—even the biggest mob boss in all of Korea.”

Jihoon gives him a look that is both exasperated and humouring. “Oh, shut up. You’re so full of shit.”

“What’s that? You don’t believe me Dinosaur boy?” Seungcheol taunts, elbowing Jihoon and interrupting his next sip.

“No, I really don’t.” Jihoon offers dryly.

“Alright,” Seungcheol puffs his chest out. He leans forward in his seat, craning his neck to glance up and down the street beyond the window. “Pick any car out there and I’ll hot wire it— _prove_ myself.”

Jihoon laughs, bright and affectionate, “I’ll hot wire _you_ in a second if you don’t shut up.”

Seungcheol grins and leans closer until his mouth is right next to Jihoon's ear, his hand dropping onto his knee in a suggestive touch.  “Sounds kinky.”

Jihoon exhales shakily, and Seungcheol can almost taste the coffee on his breath. His partner buries his flustered reaction behind the rim of his coffee cup, or _tries_ to. He can conceal his shy smile well enough, but he can’t control the blush spreading up his cheeks and pinking his ears.

He’s gorgeous when he’s like this.

He’s _always_ gorgeous actually.

Seungcheol finds himself staring, mouth hanging open, utterly transfixed. Then, against his better judgment, says, “You’re fucking gorgeous when you blush.”

Jihoon’s head snaps up then, plainly startled. He looks up at Seungcheol through his lashes and Seungcheol finds himself staring back, falling into dark eyes a few inches away from his own.

The silence that falls between them then is just shy of awkward. The cafe’s canned music seems to grow impossibly louder; Seungcheol thinks about cracking a joke and decides against it. The urge to close the distant and kiss Jihoon is right _there_ , biting on the surface. But something holds him back. Seungcheol wonders when his conscience has started wearing a Police Captain’s badge and sounding like _Namjoon_.

In the end, they’re both saved from speaking when Seungcheol’s cell starts vibrating on the table.

“That’s Mingyu. Gonna have to cut lunch short—we’ve got a shooting at Yeonji-Dong.” Seungcheol says, ending the call and grabbing his jacket.  

* * *

 

The victim is Ji Chang-Wook, a 24-year-old male and a low level dealer who’s served time for possession with intent to distribute, and assault.

Jihoon frowns as he kneels down beside the body crumpled on the stairs.

Chang-Wook’s wallet, phone and ID are all missing—and his pockets have been pulled inside out, searched thoroughly.

For all intents and purposes, it looks pretty straightforward. It looks like an attempted mugging gone very wrong— _In broad daylight._

Yeah, so—a little unusual, but not _unheard_ of.

Jihoon can feel Seungcheol standing close behind him, chest nearly pressed against Jihoon’s shoulders to get a better look.

“So, what this guy’s story?” Jihoon asks Mingyu, “I take it there’s more to it then the obvious.” He adds smooth and calm and easy, because he’s a master of improvisation, of hiding the way his heart is jackhammering in his chest.

Mingyu flips open is notebook and reads out loud, “One of his Neighbours called the police after the heard the gunshots, but by the time they thought it was safe enough to step outside into the hallway, Chang-Wook was already dead.  Nobody saw the shooter, and I’d pegged it as a robbery gone wrong, but then I spoke to the convenience store owner across the road—and he said he saw someone hanging around outside the building around the same time of the shooting. He says he saw a man follow our vic inside, then run out a few minutes later.”

Seungcheol chewing the end of his pen, says, “Sounds premeditated. Could be a rival dealer?”

Jihoon purses his lips thoughtfully, then turns to Mingyu again, “They got CCTV across the road by any chance?”

“Yep—first thing I checked. Got a camera posted right outside the shop.” Mingyu says, flipping through his notebook as he adds, “Apparently the owner’s had a spate of armed robberies and was advised by his insurers to install it.”

“Lucky for us.” Seungcheol smirks, stepping around the crime scene tape. “I’ll go speak with him and get the footage.”

Jihoon gives him a thumbs up and turns to the building caretaker. “Could you please open up his apartment for me?”

“Sure thing.” The man nods, leading the way up to the victim’s apartment.

* * *

 

There’s no evidence of any tampering at the victim’s front door, and there’s nothing immediately startling about the living area either. The apartment is in a mess, sure, but more of a ‘lived in’ mess sort of way and less of a ‘breaking and entering’ mess sort of way.

Regardless, Jihoon still follows protocol and keeps his gun drawn as he moves from room to room, casing the place for any disturbances.

As he glides across the dim living room toward the bedroom passage, he can see the bedroom door is closed over.

He approaches it quietly, listening for a minute before resting his hand on the door handle and _twisting_ \--

“ _Fuck_!” Jihoon gasps.

He reels back in shock, rubbing his palm at the sudden and sharp stab of pain.

When he looks down at his hand, he can see a little hole welling up with blood, bright and scarlet and almost pretty. He takes a couple of deep breaths, slow and quiet and wipes it away.

Kinking the door open this time, he clears the room quickly before stepping back towards the door.

_What the fuck was that?_

On closer examination, he can see that right in the centre of the handle, where the button mechanism for locking the door should be, is a needle tip sticking out. It must have sprung out when he twisted the handle, poking him with the needle—like some sort of homemade booby-trap.

“Why would anyone do that?” Jihoon asks himself, straightening up.

The shift in posture has a numbness collecting in his belly, and it takes an enormous effort not to sway right off of his feet.

He holsters his gun and rubs his palms over his jacket, feeling them already starting to sweat.

That’s—yeah, that’s probably not a good sign.

“Jihoonie? We clear?” Seungcheol’s voice calls out from the living area.

“Yeah—I’m…here.” Jihoon replies in a deceptively calm, collected voice. He is rather proud of himself, given the sudden racing of his heart.

It’s not until he steps back into the living area that things get hazy, literally.

Whatever just jabbed him in the hand is clearly making him lethargic and drowsy.

 _And_ possibly impacting on his motor functions too.

That would certainly explain how his knees suddenly give way, sending him tumbling to the floor.

Seungcheol doesn’t seem to think there’s anything strange about that though, and actually tells him to stop screwing around before he realizes Jihoon isn’t actually lying flat on the floor of the victim’s apartment because he’s admiring the wood grain.

“Fuck—Jihoonie! Baby, _please_ —talk to me.”

It feels like Seungcheol's yelling in his ear and a hand is patting his face, harder than normal.

“What the fuck happened?” Another man’s voice pipes in.

“I don’t know—I don’t know!”

The next thing he remembers is curling up in bed, mumbling something about McNuggets and needing to get changed.

He’s passed out in Seungcheol’s room, or at least he assumes he is since the sheets are the same pale grey, and someone who had damn well better be Seungcheol is speaking to him in hushed tones and easing him out of his shirt before easing on top of the covers beside him.

Jihoon reaches for him because Seungcheol is warm and smells a little like cedar and if he absolutely  _has_  to be reduced to this state it’s best that it’s happening in front of someone who won’t laugh too hard over it.

He tries to explain this to Seungcheol, but only gets as far as, “You smell,” before he dozes off again.

* * *

 

Jihoon’s brain hurts.

His eyes are bleary, his mouth tastes like candyfloss and _bees_ —or how he _imagined_ bees would taste: sort of fizzy and sweet and fluffy. His ear feels as if there may be a bee living inside of it. None of which he has the immediate explanations for.

When he tries to lift his head off the pillow it’s like he’s moving through molasses and—Oh dear God, someone  _please_  make his brain stop hurting.

There's a sigh from somewhere to his right and a hand curves over his shoulder, pulling him back down.

When he’s finished knuckling at his eyes, he notices there’s a Seungcheol-shaped blur beside him, sitting up against the headboard with a book.

Clearly Seungcheol  _hasn't_  woken up with the worst hangover of all time.

Because God likes him _best_.

In fact, the way he’s sitting seems unfairly attractive; one leg pulled up under the other, burgundy shirt sleeves shoved up. He looks like he expects someone to take a photograph of him for an editorial spread at any moment.

If Jihoon tried that his hair would stick up everywhere, and most of his jeans would be in his crotch.

“What…happened?” It takes a considerable amount of effort to form the words and not sound like he’s talking in slow motion.

Seungcheol frowns, also blurrily. “You were drugged.”

“I was?” Jihoon slurs. “Oh, the needle—”

“An Auto-injector,” Seungcheol corrects. “It was hidden in the door knob. Crime scene found it after I carried you out.”

“Carried me out?” Jihoon echoes.

Well, this is embarrassing.

Jihoon tries to squint fiercely at his partner, but his eyes get stuck closed and he rubs them fiercely instead. (Oh my God, is it even possible to fiercely rub your eyes? He probably looks like a three-year-old, which is even worse than usual.)

“What—what did I get injected with?”

Seungcheol’s brow furrows. “A very strong, very fast acting sedative. The doctor said it just needs to work its way out of your system. But just to be sure, Captain wants you to rest up here while they run additional tests.”

“Oh, okay.” Jihoon murmurs.

He turns enough to nudge his head against Seungcheol’s shoulder, too sapped to realise he’s trying to _cuddle_ with his partner until there's a soft, vibrating curl of laughter against his cheek.

"Shut up, I’m high," Jihoon complains, but he still hasn't quite managed to roll away yet. He tells himself it's because Seungcheol is warmer than the cold flatness of the sheet.

A worrying thought suddenly occurs to him however.

“Wait a second. Sedative? Huh? Why was there an auto-injector in the doorknob?” He asks, his questions tumbling awkwardly over his lips.

He hears Seungcheol’s heavy sigh. “Jihoon—if I tell you, you can’t try and leave and head back to the station, okay? You have to rest. Captain’s orders.”

Jihoon nods sombrely, letting his eyes drift shut again.

He hears the sound of a book being set on the night table and the creak of the mattress as Seungcheol shifts to lie next to him. 

“The sedative cocktail you were injected with matches the sedative used in the Bridge murders.” Seungcheol says quietly.

Jihoon’s eyes snap open, suddenly alert.

A chill goes up his spine. “What are you saying?”

Seungcheol rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m _saying_ —someone broke into Chang-Wook’s apartment, unscrewed the door knob, took it apart and fitted a spring loaded auto-injector inside. So when he would twist the handle to open his bedroom door, he’d get hit with the sedative and pass out.”

Jihoon mouth goes dry, and he has to swallow and swallow again. “Oh fuck. He’s—He’s killing again.”

“He hasn’t killed _anyone_ yet.” Seungcheol says forcefully. “Chang-Wook was actually killed by a rival dealer who arranged the hit from inside his prison cell. The guy who shot him is already in custody and confessed to the whole thing. We’ve got him entering the building and running out again on CCTV, _and_ the names of all the people involved. It’s an open and shut case according to the captain and he doesn’t want you to overthink it.”

Jihoon shakes his head, the motion making the room swim in new and interesting patterns.

“Overthink it? How can I not? Our guy was _planning_ on killing again. He’d set up the kill—that’s what the sedative was for. Chang-Wook was going to be his next victim, had he not been shot. Oh god—he was probably on the scene hours before we were—he would have _been_ in the apartment to set up the auto-injector. He would have tried to return to finish off the job-“

“And the heavy police presence at the crime scene would have sent him running a mile. Now—lie down.” Seungcheol interrupts, sounding more exasperated than worried as he presses Jihoon gently back against the mattress.

“I can’t lie down.” Jihoon snaps, kicking the covers away and making a move to roll out of the bed. “I have to look at the crime scene. If the killer was in that apartment, he might have left something be-”

He pauses with one foot on the floor, feeling suddenly and incredibly _exposed_ because…. he’s not wearing any underwear.  

Oh. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

He has no idea where his boxers are.

His rubber duckie boxers are _missing_.

As are most of the rest of his clothes.

All of the rest of his clothes really.

He has misplaced his clothes...possibly on purpose? But what possible purpose could he have for lying naked in his partners bed?

“Why am I naked?” He asks Seungcheol, just so he has his story straight for when the inevitable missing rubber duckie boxers report is made. There is a missing rubber duckie boxers report _looming_ in his future.

Seungcheol smirks at him. “You kind of insisted.”

“I insisted on taking off all my clothes and sleeping in your bed?” Jihoon shrieks.

Well he doesn't really shriek it, but it comes close.

The not-shrieking gets him a gently raised eyebrow. Seungcheol seems a little _too_ amused by Jihoon's obvious discomfort.

“I believe your delusional argument was _—‘I don’t want anyone to see the rubber duckies on my underwear, please take them off Cheollie._ ” Seungcheol says in the worst imitation of Jihoon’s voice.

Which confirms—if there was ever any doubt—that there is no limit to what Seungcheol would do for him. Honestly, none at all. He’d probably help Jihoon dispose of a body in the woods if Jihoon asked.

“And if I said I wanted to jump off a cliff, would you have let me do that _too_?” Jihoon huffs.

Seungcheol snorts. “I would never let you get hurt, Jihoon. Just naked.” He smirks, edging the bedsheet up with what looks for all the world like scientific curiosity.

Jihoon grabs it and tugs it down again, then changes his mind and drags it all the way round his body like he's protecting his virtue. God—like he's protecting whatever virtue he has _left_.

"Hey, don’t—don’t look.”

A smile grows on Seungcheol face, slow and predatory. "I think it's a little late to be shy, Cupcake. I _was_ the one who undressed you."

Jihoon feels his throat catch at the idea of Seungcheol's large hands gently slipping him out of his clothes. He shutters his eyes against the image and shifts back a little further. "This isn't shy this is  _horrified_ , this is my horrified face."

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Horrified that I saw you naked? Why? You’ve got an amazing body."

Jihoon ignores him and waves a hand, desperately. "I’m horrified that you would just follow the delusional requests of your drugged-out partner.”

“Like I said, you were very insistent. Even all doped up, you’re scarily in charge. You even confiscated my police badge.”

“What?”

Seungcheol grins, eyes crinkling with delight. Jihoon suspects he's going to have to put up with this for a while. “Yeah—because you thought I would _lose_ it apparently. So you tucked it under your pillow, for _safekeeping._ ”

Jihoon lifts up his pillow and does indeed find Seungcheol’s badge hidden there. Along with the remote, a half-eaten packet of polo’s and a small, plastic figurine of Ronald McDonald.

Jihoon’s not sure why any of the items require ‘safekeeping’, but he’s too tired to question himself now.

He shoves the items aside and lets his head fall against the pillow again. Heading to the station seems like too much effort at this point and his vision is beginning to sparkle again anyway.

Seungcheol lies down behind him, watching him.

Jihoon can feel his breath ghosting over the back of his nape and does his best not to shiver.

“Did I do anything _else_ humiliating while I was out of it?” He asks huffily.

“Oh, just a few things that I will treasure till my dying breath. But nothing I’m planning on sharing with anyone else so don’t worry cupcake.” Seungcheol says in a tone that's the vocal equivalent of a pat on the head.

Jihoon breathes indecision into the pillow for a minute until the mattress creaks sharply behind him.

Seungcheol’s leaning over him now, watching him like a particularly large dog protecting its bone. He places a hand on Jihoon’s forehead, frowning. If he’s trying to get an accurate estimate of Jihoon’s temperature, he’s out of luck; everything always gets warmer when Seungcheol touches him.

Jihoon bats his hand away with a huff.  “And why are you here? Why aren’t you at the crime scene?”

The second it’s out of his mouth, Jihoon _knows_ it’s a stupid thing to say.

Seungcheol’s expression crumbles right in front of his eyes, and in a flash he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Oh, no,” he scoffs, “it’s no trouble, I love taking unpaid leave to make sure you’re safe and well, cupcake, stop embarrassing us both with these effusive flights of gratitude. I’ll just go wait in the living room and you can ring a fucking bell when you need something.” He grunts, moving towards the door.

Even though it leaves him dazed and disorientated, Jihoon scrambles to the edge of the bed to stop him.

“No, wait, wait—I’m sorry.” He stammers, capturing Seungcheol’s fingers as he passes.

It’s a strange feeling, Seungcheol’s fingers, callused and warm and unexpectedly lax in his grip. Jihoon squeezes them gently and urges his partner to stop. 

“I didn’t mean it like that Cheollie, I just meant—If you’re _here_ , babysitting me, _who’s_ at the crime scene?”

There’s an agonizing pause while Seungcheol averts his eyes, visibly works past his irritation to answer him. His expression holds rigid as he tilts his head back to meet Jihoon's eyes.

“Captain handed it over to Jun and Minghao for now, with instructions to pass over anything they find when you’re cleared for duty. And until you _get_ the all clear from medical, Captain says you’re not allowed back at the station. Okay? That’s the best I could negotiate while you were out of it.”

“Yeah, that’s—that’s great.” Jihoon nods, gently squeezing Seungcheol’s hand again.

Seungcheol is staring at him now, deep and pensive and, not scowling exactly, but his eyebrows are drawn tightly together. And yeah—he’s _pissed_. And has every right to be; Jihoon was coming across pretty ungrateful.

“I’m sorry Seungcheol,” Jihoon murmurs, mouth twisted in frustration. He feels his stomach quiver at his own stupidity. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, I swear. I just hate feeling so helpless. And—Jesus, did you really take unpaid leave to look after me?”

“Yeah, well—we’re partners. Who else was going to do it?” Seungcheol huffs. It's exasperated and fond and everything that Seungcheol is—his patience, his steadfastness, his conviction.

Jihoon feels humbled by it.

“Thank you Cheol.” He says, not looking up from where he is still holding onto Seungcheol's hand. Now that the adrenaline is starting to ebb, he can feel the heaviness return to his limbs.

Seungcheol sighs and turns his hand in Jihoon’s grasp, until they’re palm to palm, Seungcheol’s warm broad hand wrapping round Jihoon’s now.

“Anytime cupcake.” He squeezes gently before letting his grip slide away. “I’m going to get you some tea, doctor said the more fluids you drink the faster you can flush the sedative out.”

“Uhm, and, maybe some boxers?” Jihoon murmurs, remembering suddenly how very naked he is.

The sheet's barely clinging to the edge of his hip now with the way he almost _threw_ himself off the bed earlier.

Seungcheol pauses in the doorway to give him a considering eyebrow. “Hmm. I’ll think about it.”

* * *

 

Jihoon’s head is feeling much better the next day, even though he would rather sleep some more than go for his check up with the medical team.

Seungcheol helpfully points out that Jihoon has all the social skills of a pomegranate when he’s _not_ drugged up, never mind when he _is_ —so refuses to let him go to the appointment alone.

If Jihoon were at his best, he would never give in so easily. But Jihoon is still a little woozy, still anxious about the evidence and the crime scene, still annoyed he can’t go back to work till he gets the all clear.

If he were at his best, he’d never end up resting his head in Seungcheol’s lap while they’re killing time in the waiting room, but he isn’t and he does and he doesn’t give a shit.

He can feel Seungcheol’s thigh tense against his cheek, but his partner doesn’t shove him away even though Jihoon’s face is delightfully close to his crotch.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol’s thigh relaxes again and there is a hand on Jihoon’s head. Fingers, gently running through his hair. His brain—barely functioning as it is—stutters to a complete stop.

He does not know into what alternate reality he has been thrust, but if those fingers—those fingers—could just keep going, _please_? That would be acceptable. More than acceptable.

When he tilts his head slightly, the hand is withdrawn and Jihoon may or may not let out a noise of protest that may or not may not resemble a _whimper_.

Seungcheol chuckles and immediately resumes his petting, apparently understanding what Jihoon wants despite his rare inability to articulate. 

“You’re like a tame little kitten like this.” He murmurs, sliding his fingers over Jihoon’s forehead, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from his eyes. The touch is so gentle, and Jihoon is out of it enough to want to lean into it like a cat. “In the nicest way possible, I kinda want you to stay drugged up, so I can look after you.”

Jihoon snorts against Seungcheol’s thigh even though his throat feels ridiculously tight.

“It’s your turn to get drugged next time.” he grumbles.

Seungcheol laughs and strokes his hair until the mousse loosens its hold.

By the time his appointment is up, Jihoon ends up looking like a tornado survivor with half his hair tousled as hell. But Seungcheol comes into the room with him and does all the talking and Jihoon lets it go by.

* * *

 

Without permission to so much as  _look_  at his case notes, Jihoon has been going slowly out of his mind. Even sleeping most of the day, there is was little to occupy him if he wasn’t allowed to work.

So it’s a tangible relief to be deemed healthy enough to assume his duties. He relishes the thought of a full day out of this bed. Even the promise of returning to the shitty station coffee and the regular psych evaluation doesn't dampen his mood.

What _does_ dampen it however, is the complete lack of useful evidence the forensics team were able to gather from the apartment.

During his convalescence Jihoon has allowed himself to imagine a box-full of incriminating material, something tangible that could lead him and Seungcheol to the killer’s doorstep. But all they manage to recover is a partial thumbprint from the syringe valve hidden in the doorknob.

Ignoring the possibility that it may have been deliberately left there to mislead them—it’s not even enough to run a search in the criminal database. And according to Wonwoo, it lacks the sufficient ten points of comparison to pin it to anyone even _if_ the database search _did_ come up with a name.

It’s a disappointing result, even if Jeonghan manages to convict the actual killer using the CCTV evidence from the grocery store and invites everyone out for a round of drink to celebrate.

Jihoon, naturally, excuses himself and spends the night in cold case, sorting through old evidence.

He doesn’t think there’s much to celebrate knowing ‘The Bridge Killer’ is out there, seeking his next victim.

* * *

 

A few weeks after the drugging, Jihoon is at his desk catching up on a few case reports that had never been filed since his stint off; Seungcheol’s greatest flaw as a partner is his inability to do paperwork, and Jihoon has learned quickly that this flaw isn’t going to be fixed anytime soon.

He is lost in thought, eyes growing a bit blurry from staring at a computer screen all day, when a soft-spoken voice asks, “Excuse me, do you know where I might find Detective Seungcheol?”

Jihoon glances up to find an elegantly dressed young man standing beside him.

He’s wearing a suit, minus the tie and his hair, a light brown is combed artfully away from his face. His accent is soft, lilting, and American.

He’s very handsome, and Jihoon, for some reason, feels instantly wary of him.

“He’s in a meeting with our captain at the moment,” Jihoon says, waving his hand toward Namjoon’s office. “He should be done any minute now, Mr...?”

“Jisoo, Hong Jisoo. I’m the new forensic psychiatrist for the department—I used to work with Detective Seungcheol back in Daegu.” He smiles as Jihoon shakes his hand. “We also happen to be childhood friends, if you can believe it.”

Jihoon blinks in astonishment. “You’re from Daegu?”

“Close enough. Cheollie and I went to school together until my parents moved us back to the States.” His voice curls around Seungcheol’s name lovingly, too intimate to be platonic.

Jihoon can’t remember hearing anyone else ever referring to Seungcheol as  _Cheollie_ ; it just didn’t feel right.

Clearly he’s not the _only_ one to earn the privilege.

“Well, you’re welcome to wait for him if you’d like,” Jihoon replies briskly, heart skipping sharply in his chest.

Jisoo tilts his head to one side, his smile widening. “Oh, you must be Cheollie’s Cupcake.”

Jihoon’s cheeks instantly grow hot. “Yeah, I’m Detective Lee Jihoon, his partner.”

“I didn’t even know you had a last name,” Jisoo laughs. “It’s cupcake this, Jihoonie that. I swear, you’re all he ever talks about these days.”

 _Is that before or after you fuck?_  Jihoon thinks before he can stop himself.

He knows he has no business being concerned with Seungcheol’s private life, but he can’t help wondering how long they’ve been involved, if Seungcheol disappears to Jisoo’s place on the nights Jihoon doesn’t stay over or when he begs off drinks with the rest of the department, if all the looks that have passed between him and Jihoon over the last several months have all been in Jihoon’s head.

God, he feels ridiculous. It shouldn't bother him.

Of course Seungcheol has a boyfriend. He's tall, strong and handsome—has an ass with its own twitter page—and moreover, his reputation as a bad ass cop is _legendary_. Why should he refrain from seeking out the companionship he deserves just because Jihoon is secretly crushing over him.

Jihoon doesn’t really know what to say, outside of jealously grilling Jisoo for more detailed information about Seungcheol that he’ll never know.

It shouldn’t  _matter_ , he isn’t really jealous, anyway, it’s just—just a knee-jerk reaction to being territorial about his partner, and—

“Hey, Jisoo!” he suddenly hears Seungcheol exclaim across the squad room. “I didn’t think you were coming for another hour.”

Jisoo beams at him, all perfect white teeth and stupid fucking flawless hair.

Yeah, Seungcheol is definitely in love with him.

“I got out of work early, so I thought we could make an early start.”

“Yeah, sure. I just would’ve tidied myself up a bit if I’d known you’d be early. I’m gonna look like crap next to you.” Seungcheol drawls, eyes crinkling at edges as he laughs and reels Jisoo into a hug. He looks devastatingly young and giddy for a moment, and Jihoon finds it hard to breathe.

“Don’t worry about. Jihoon and I were just catching up. I was hoping to get him to myself for a while, get him to spill the dirt on you.” Jisoo winks at Jihoon, who is beginning to feel rather lost.

Seungcheol presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt as he walks up behind Jihoon’s chair. “Jihoonie would never betray me in such a way, would you, cupcake?”

And then, he cups his other hand over the back of Jihoon’s neck and squeezes, his thumb skimming over the hyper-sensitive spot below Jihoon’s ear. It’s so casual, yet so fucking affectionate that Jihoon has no idea how to process such a touch with Jisoo standing so close.

He freezes, looking up at Seungcheol with wide eyes.

Seungcheol catches the look.

Instantly, he drops his hand, his expression going sheepish as his cheeks turn a little pink. “Ah, anyway, should we get going? You don’t need me around for the rest of the evening, do you Detective Lee?”

_Detective Lee?_

What the fuck?

Seungcheol only calls Jihoon by that when he thinks Jihoon is _angry_ at him.

“No, I’m good. It was nice to meet you, Jisoo,” Jihoon replies, turning back to his case reports.

His neck still feels hot from Seungcheol’s palm, and maybe that’s what distracts him from reminding Seungcheol he was meant to catch a lift home with him tonight. Guess he’ll be catching a cab instead.

“And it was nice meeting you too.” Jisoo says over his shoulder.

Jihoon keeps his eyes glued to his computer screen until they’re both gone, but he hears Jisoo whisper to Seungcheol on their way out, “He’s really something, Cheol. I don’t blame you at all.”

“I know,” Seungcheol says, but there is a strange wistfulness in his voice.

* * *

 

Jihoon’s been working through his case reports for the better part of an hour before he gets interrupted again.

“Where’s ‘shoot first, ask questions later’?” Jeonghan asks, suddenly sitting on the edge of his desk.

Jihoon has to think for a second to realize Jeonghan’s referring to Seungcheol and _not_ talking about the case they're working, which involves a missing knife, but no guns.

“He’s uhm—on a date.” Jihoon answers as casually as he can.

He hates the way his stomach drops at that, like he  _cares_.

“A date?” The other man raises an eyebrow as if it had honestly never thought it possible for Seungcheol to attract anything but danger. “Like as in—he’s _out_ on a date? With _someone_.”

“Yeah.” Jihoon replies quietly, looking down and away from Jeonghan.

His usually quick mind isn't giving him anything to say, so he downs a mouthful of cold coffee to fill the silence.

“Huh.” Jeonghan tilts his head to one side, considering. “I thought you guys were….never mind.”

He sounds sincere and Jihoon's almost afraid to ask. “Were _what_?”

“ _You know.._.” Jeonghan intones, then waggles his eyebrows that makes a crude gesture with his hands.

Jihoon can't quite stop the tangle of embarrassment and confusion that comes on that. He fixes his attention back to his case notes, with some difficulty.

“No, we’re not. Who told you that?” he asks, though the timbre of his voice is screaming  _what the fuck_.

“I don’t think I should name anyone specifically,” Jeonghan waves him off, faint hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve heard a few stories going around the station from the other officers _.”_

Jihoon feels his heart start to beat faster, an irritating flush spread over his face.

He suddenly has the feeling he's been missing a lot of vital discussions at the police station. A lot. He doesn't know where all these officers are, or why they’re sharing stories about him.  

“What kind of stories?”

Jeonghan shrugs affably. “Oh, just about you and Seungcheol and the _special_ partnership you have. I didn’t believe them at first, but the more I’ve gotten to know you, I can see that you both have this weird chemistry nobody else seems to have. I know partners are meant to be pretty protective of each other, but I hear Seungcheol is _crazy_ protective; ready to snap the neck of anyone who looks at you funny. I’ve also heard that you have a big girly crush on him, ogle his ass all day and blush when he smiles at you.”

“I do **_not_**!” Jihoon bristles despite the fact that Jeonghan is maddeningly correct.

Jeonghan’s smile grows more distinct. “It’s gossip, Jihoon. There’s bound to be slight exaggerations.”

“Plentiful exaggerations actually.” Jihoon snaps in response.

He attempts to shuffle his papers in some semblance of order, but only succeeds in messing them. “It’s ridiculous the crap people will come up with when they’ve got nothing better to do. Maybe everyone should focus on their work and keep the city safe, instead of bothering themselves about my fictious feelings for my partner.” Jihoon insists, turning a page of his notes.

There's a sideways glance from Jeonghan, teasing and curious. “Are you saying you _don’t_ find him attractive at all? Because I find that very hard to believe Jihoon. Seungcheol’s not exactly _my_ type, but even I won’t deny that he’s a very handsome man. And if I was you, and I had a handsome man at my elbow 24/7, buying me artisan coffee and calling me a cupcake—I’d be a little besotted.”

Jihoon ducks his head, blushing despite himself.

He doesn’t know how he started discussing his love life with, literally, the assistant district attorney who just happened to stroll by during his quiet crisis.

“Well, I’m clearly made of sterner stuff.” Jihoon purses his lips. “We’re just friends.”

Jeonghan's eyes narrow briefly, then his entire demeanour softens. 

He reaches across the space between them and pats Jihoon on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re not a lawyer Jihoon—you’re a terrible liar.”

Jihoon finds he can't think of anything to say, so he takes the coward's way out and says nothing.

Jeonghan gets a call then about drafting a search warrant, so he leaves Jihoon with a desk stacked with file folders and a vague sense he's done himself a disservice.

* * *

 

Jihoon stays at the station until well into the night. It’s close to eleven by the time he finishes up the last report and sends it off to Namjoon, and by that point his brain is fried and he has a dull headache right behind his eyes. He waves goodnight to Mingyu working the night shift and prepares to head to his own apartment for the night, something he hasn’t done in weeks.

He’s about to hail a taxi, when he hears someone call out, “Oh good, you’re ready to go. I thought I was going to have to drug your coffee and carry you out of there.”

Seungcheol is standing on the sidewalk, hair blowing in the cool night air.

“Shouldn’t have been a problem for you, after all you have plenty of experience of drugging my beverages,” Jihoon replies with a good-natured smirk.

“Hey—I thought we agreed to forget all about that.” Seungcheol huffs stepping closer.

He bumps his shoulder against Jihoon’s, eyes bright and playful, and Jihoon just... _wants_.

“Did you have fun with Jisoo?” he asks, trying desperately for nonchalance.

“Oh, always. He moved here a few months ago, but I’ve been too busy to spend time with him properly. I’m glad I made time though, we had a lot to catch up on.” Seungcheol smiles.  

 _I’ll bet—_ Jihoon thinks sourly.

_Lots of sex to ‘catch up’ on._

“That’s nice.” Jihoon smiles, and hopes it doesn’t look forced. “Jisoo did mention that he was joining the department as the new forensic psychiatrist, so I guess that means we’ll be working together a lot?”

“Yeah, well I hope so! Jisoo’s really clever, and his criminal profiling helped us solve a lot of cases back in Daegu.” Seungcheol says with a wide grin.

He leans close and adds in a stage whisper, his mouth barely brushing over the shell of Jihoon’s ear, “And it’s always good to have a friendly face backing up our case to the DA.”

It’s pathetic how easily Jihoon goes breathless at the mere suggestion of Seungcheol’s mouth against his skin. Which is probably why Jihoon says, “How long have you two been together?”

Seungcheol jerks back in surprise, eyes wide, then bursts into laughter. “What the fuck,  _Jihoon_ , you didn’t actually think—fuck, no. We’re not—fuck no.”

Jihoon feels his stomach twist with embarrassment. “Sorry, I just figured—I didn’t know—”

“No, it’s all right,” Seungcheol chuckles, “I’m just glad Jisoo’s not here, he’d be laughing his ass off over this.” His sheepish grin is identical to the one he’d smiled earlier in the station.

“Sorry,” Jihoon says again, grateful for the dim street lights that make it hard to see his blush. “I don’t know why I thought that. I—erm—sorry."

Seungcheol shakes his head in obvious disagreement, but he's smiling faintly now. The barest upward quirk at the corners of his mouth. “I always know when you’re too exhausted to stay upright—you start apologizing for everything, even things that aren’t your fault.”

Jihoon lets himself smile at that, and it’s sloppy, affectionate, full of things he tries to never show Seungcheol. “You don’t hear me apologizing for the fact that you’re a lazy shithead who can’t do his own share of the paperwork do you?”

“Oh, fuck you Jihoonie. Like you wouldn’t have re-written everything I wrote anyway.” Seungcheol says without missing a beat. There is laughter in his voice, and in the way he lays his accent on thicker than usual.

Then he lifts his hand, dragging his thumb gently down the line of Jihoon’s jaw. “So— _home_?”

And Jihoon, tired and punch-drunk and crushing stupidly on his partner, leans into the touch and sighs, his eyes sliding shut. “Yeah, alright.”

* * *

 

“I need a shower.” Jihoon realises as he steps through the door.

“Yeah, me too. I’ll go fetch some towels—jump in.” Seungcheol says, waving him towards the bathroom.

Jihoon dumps his clothes in the laundry basket and jumps into the shower.

He’s planning on making it quick as not to use up all the hot water, but he’s been hunched over his desk all night and every muscle is ringing a slow, unhappy song of misery, no matter how deep he pushes himself under the hot spray.

There's an ache between his shoulder blades that's going to turn into stiffness no matter what he does, and he has a familiar twinge behind his eyes that heralds a migraine.

He leans his forehead on the wall, just lets the water pour down over him and it's bliss for long seconds.

Until his waist is caught, in brutally strong fingers.

Jihoon makes a noise and jerks his head out of the spray.

He recognises the slow, smug breath of laughter in his ear, though that doesn't stop the flood of adrenaline. It doesn't make him relax.

“Don’t tell me you’re falling asleep standing upright.” Seungcheol whispers in his ear.

Jihoon blinks water out of his eyes. “No—the water feels good is all.”

There's a slow hum that sounds amused and the hands on his waist slide on wet skin in a way that manages to be suggestive and comforting at the same time.

“Budge over.” Seungcheol says, stepping into the shower too.

Oh—so now they’re showering together too? Fabulous.

Jihoon does budge over— _all the way_ over. So all the way over he’s touching the wall and missing the spray by a good four feet.

Seungcheol’s probably used to showering with other guys like it’s no big deal—rinsing down in the communal showers after a high school basketball game or something. But Jihoon’s never been one of the guys. In school he was the _‘Give me back my towel you jerks’_ kid who had his P.E shorts stolen at the start of every class. Even in the academy where he was respected by his peers, he was pretty private and brought all his clothes into the shower cubicle with him.

So, yeah—to say he was self-conscience to be showering with his super hot, nicely muscled partner is a _teensy_ bit of an understatement.

Water loves Seungcheol, sliding along the curves and angles, spilling in silver droplets towards the floor. Jihoon lets his gaze linger on Seungcheol's body—mapping every inch with his hungry gaze.

Seungcheol notices him looking, and reaches out to him, smirking

“What are you doing over there, Cupcake? Get under the water.” He chuckles, grabbing his elbow and tugging him closer.

Jihoon can feel the wet spread of fingers on his back, the way they drift and curve round his waist, thumb sliding on the skin where the water runs.

"It’s okay Jihoonie, you’re safe." Seungcheol says quietly, and now there’s a hand flattening and moving slowly downwards, in a way that feels strangely like an attempt to settle him.

“I—I know I am.” Jihoon says, a small waver in his voice betraying his nervousness.

The rumble of Seungcheol’s laugh is enough to make Jihoon’s toes curl. “So shy. It’s okay, I know what you want.”

Seungcheol eases him back until the wet length of his chest is pressed into Jihoon's back, fingers slipping back down to cradle his hips, tilting them until the water can't run between them.

Jihoon gasps in surprise but doesn't resist, doesn't pull away when Seungcheol drags him back into the steadily hardening weight at his crotch. There’s demand and intent and Jihoon can't help but spread his legs just a little and to let Seungcheol's cock slide between his ass cheeks.

“Cheol.” Jihoon gasps, breathless, fingers going white on the wet tiles.

"Put your hands on the wall," Seungcheol says. His voice is roughness and honey in Jihoon's ear, and the drag of stubble on the bare slickness of his neck is deliriously good.

Jihoon grunts and obeys, leans forward into his hands. The spray hits his shoulder and back, spattering up onto the plane of his face.

There's the faraway clatter of bottles and then Jihoon's listening to Seungcheol stroke lotion or shower gel, or whatever the hell it is, over himself. Before pressing a finger into Jihoon, just one, a careful slow slide, curious and indulgent.

“Hnn—Cheol—yes.”

 A low, flaring exhale flutters over the back of his neck. “Good boy—you can take it.”

That's all Jihoon gets, barely enough preparation, before he’s pushed into position and Seungcheol's cock presses  _inside_  him.

* * *

 

Seungcheol bolts upright in bed when something slaps him in the face. Hard.

Startled, he takes a second to reorient himself before turning to his attacker to retaliate in kind. Only now that he’s more alert, he realises it’s just Jihoon lying next to him in bed, tossing fitfully in his sleep.

Laughing to himself, Seungcheol lies down again, scooting a few inches closer to smooth a reassuring hand along the length of his partner’s spine. The contact calms Jihoon marginally, but Seungcheol can still feel him twitch faintly under the sheets, can see the flutter of lashes against his cheeks. Restless.

 _It’s just a dream, he’s okay—_ Seungcheol tells himself, even though all he wants to do is gather Jihoon in his arms and whisper assurances in his ear.

He has to stop himself from running his hands over Jihoon’s skin—settles for a friendly hand on the shoulder, a light touch to the forehead. The acceptable places that a partner can touch his partner. A friend can touch his friend.

“It’s okay Jihoonie, you’re safe.” Seungcheol whispers soothingly.

Jihoon wrinkles his nose and murmurs inaudibly into the pillow. “I—no—am.”

 _So precious—_ Seungcheol thinks.

His partner’s probably fighting injustice in his sleep—taking on the entire criminal world. He’s probably dreaming of arresting suspects and disorganised case notes, and Seungcheol doodling in said case notes.

Honestly, Seungcheol wonders sometimes if Jihoon ever—

“Hnm—Cheol.” Jihoon murmurs out loud suddenly, and the world—just for a moment—comes to a complete and glorious stop.

Seungcheol shifts up onto his elbows and his heart spurs faster. 

He holds there, dumbfounded, staring at his sleeping partner, until Jihoon mumbles again: “C-cheollie—.”

It’s unmistakable now. Jihoon’s _saying_ his name.

There’s a lot for Seungcheol to process about this; surprise and second-hand embarrassment and pure fucking elation.

Jihoon is thinking about  _him, is dreaming_ about _him._ But Seungcheol can’t process any of those things right now, because Jihoon isn’t just saying Seungcheol’s name, he’s….

“Cheol— _yesnn_ —so big.”

….he’s _moaning_ it.

His voice is needy and breathy and an entirely different pitch from his usual authoritative register. His face is all screwed up in pleasure and his lips are parted slightly and he looks magnificent.

He is also, very noticeably, rutting against the mattress.

_Holy shit._

Jihoon is having a wet dream. Jihoon is having a wet dream about him; he’s practically writhing six inches away, moaning Seungcheol’s name and thrusting his hips against the bed.

Seungcheol is already hard from the sight alone, never mind the knowledge that it’s all for him. In all his months of wanting this, it never occurred to him that Jihoon might want him too.

 _Jesus_.

He probably shouldn’t be watching this. Jihoon is asleep and vulnerable, but Seungcheol just can’t take his eyes away.

He wants to know _exactly_ what Jihoon’s dreaming about, what he’s doing to Jihoon in that dream and then _how_ he can make it a reality because there’s no fucking way he can go on pretending everything is platonic between them.  

Before he can make good on his intentions, there’s a soft noise of complaint, a fluttering of eyelashes and then Jihoon’s awake and staring at him from inches away.

His eyes, normally so guarded and difficult to decipher, are impossibly wide—two expressive bright spots in the dimness. He looks startled and more than a little bit perplexed. As though the very world has contorted into unfamiliar shapes and left him scrambling to figure which direction is up.

Seungcheol can sympathise—he feels much the same.

Seungcheol forces himself to draw air into his lungs and steady himself. 

“Good dream?” He asks, feeling a little daring.

There's a hitch in Jihoon’s breath, followed by a moment of perfect stillness.

Seungcheol doesn’t know what comes next, so he holds his breath, waiting anxiously for the answer to his question. 

But Jihoon doesn’t speak.

Seungcheol can _feel_ the tension—can almost _see_ Jihoon's instincts ricocheting between flight and ... whatever it is they’re doing. He can sense an unwelcome reality creeping toward him in the darkness, the reality that Jihoon isn’t ready for this.

“I think you must have been having a nightmare.” Seungcheol diverts mercifully. If only he could muster up some bravado; if only he could simply  _ask_ Jihoon why he was moaning his name. Seungcheol knows he is no coward to run from a challenge, but somehow he can't find the words.

He tries to keep his body language casual, relaxed as he continues, “I don’t know what you were dreaming about Jihoonie, but you slapped me awake in your sleep. Really fucking hard man, it hurt.”

Jihoon chews on that, looking more at ease with every passing moment.

“Oh. Is…that _all_ I did?” He says, voice soft, disbelieving.

He sounds nothing at all like himself. If anything he sounds  _terrified_. Guilty and small and  _wrong_.

Seungcheol can’t stand it. It’s enough to send him into over-protective mode.

His reach is instinctive, blind in the darkness, but his hand closes unerringly on Jihoon’s elbow. He slides his grip up and squeezes Jihoon’s biceps, the unlikely sleek bulk of hard muscle just under the hem of his t-shirt sleeve. “It was nothing really. Just some flailing and distressed mumbling,” he says, “I figured you were dreaming about someone doodling in your case notes again.” He adds with a smile, just to take the edge off.

His attempt at levity must work.

Jihoon blinks in apparent surprise and smiles back at him for a moment, but his gaze is distracted, as if he’s seeing something else play out in front of Seungcheol’s face.

“Yeah, yeah—that’s what it was.” He mumbles, sounding lost in thought. His expression shutters and smoothes not a moment later, the staunch cop exerting conscious control. He sounds calmer—almost like himself—when he says, “Good night Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol watches him turn over, punch his pillow as if he’s trying to subdue it, and sighs.

“Sweet dreams Hoonie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry, Blue balls. Even in dreams it appears. I really suffer with slow burn.  
> 2) It is heating up though....:)  
> 3) I just had this image of Jihoon being sort of out of it, and being embarrassed by his rubber duckie underwear and pleading with Cheol to help him take them off XD  
> 4) Hope you enjoyed the update :) Feedback always appreciated!


	9. Self-incrimination

It takes Jihoon a while for him to realize what has stirred him from sleep, and he distantly recalls the sensation of fingers threading through his hair just moments before. Blinking sluggishly, he rolls over—only to come in contact with empty air instead of the solid warmth he expects. 

He shakes off sleep and remembers where he is: Seungcheol's flat, in Seungcheol’s empty bed, wrapped in Seungcheol’s sheets—and the memories of last night’s dream come rushing back, leave him blinking in the suddenly-too bright sunlight filtering through the curtains, breathing hard.

 _Okay_. So he had a naughty dream about Seungcheol—so what?

It’s no big deal.

Seungcheol’s a very attractive man, with a body to die for and probably half the city has entertained a few fantasies about him. There’s nothing weird or wrong or _crazy_ about Jihoon dreaming of him— _crowding him in the shower stall, lifting him, effortless, and fucking him against a soapy, tiled wall._

 _Oh, god! Stop replaying it!_ —Jihoon groans and pulls the covers over his head. _It's not as if I even enjoyed that._

Sadly, Jihoon has an extremely good sense memory, which at the moment chooses to bring up the fact that, oh yes, he fucking  _did_.

He’d loved every moment of it: the intimate press of their bodies sliding together, Seungcheol’s huge hands framing his hips, the pain mingled pleasure of the first thrust. 

There was a twinge of disappointment when he woke up and realized it wasn't real.

Just as things were _really_ getting good, the fantasy had come crumbling down around him; the wet tiles and warmth of the shower giving way to cool bedsheets and the confused eyes of his partner, staring back at him in the darkness.

Seungcheol had thought Jihoon was having a _nightmare_ of all things—and thank God for that.

Jihoon doesn’t even want to _think_ about how Seungcheol would react if he knew the truth.

Ask for a transfer probably.

The question is, what to do now? 

The _best_ thing would be to compartmentalize and move on; Jihoon had plenty of practice with that. He’ll just keep himself busy with work and let the dream fade out the way most dreams eventually do.

It’ll be fine.

Nothing has to change between them.

Instead of sticking to his new plan—Jihoon’s brain begins replaying the dream, in slow and vivid flashes of memory that make him hard again almost immediately. He tamps down on the hysterical laughter that wants to bubble up and spill over. He feels dizzy. He feels crazy. He feels like something is breaking open inside of him, spilling heat and need and want everywhere.

Jesus—he _can’t_. He just can’t forget how good that had felt. How much he’d wanted it.

Even though nothing actually _happened_ , that dream has made what had previously been nothing more than a happy little distraction concrete in a way Jihoon isn’t prepared for. It makes him realize that whatever the hell is going on in his head, he needs to figure it out. He _needs_ to know if what he's feeling for Seungcheol is real, or just a self-induced mindfuck.

Jihoon’s frozen in his partner’s bed, unable to decide when he’s jerked away from his thoughts by the sound of voices come from the living room.

Specifically—one voice, and though it's quiet, it doesn't sound happy.

Curious, he untangles himself from the sheets and pads barefoot down the short hallway.

The door to the living room is open enough that Jihoon can hear Seungcheol on the phone. He forces his lungs to take a quiet breath, in and out, and resigns himself to the inevitable. He's going to stand here and eavesdrop, and he's not even going to feel that guilty.

“I don't know how you found out about it and _frankly_ , I don't care.”  Seungcheol says.

Jihoon can’t see him yet, but his partner sounds frustrated—agitated.

“No, the reason I didn’t tell you, dad, was because I _didn’t_ want your opinion.”

Better than anything that tells Jihoon why Seungcheol sounds like he's one second away from trying to reach through the phone and strangle whoever's on the other end.

From what Seungcheol’s told him, his relationship with his father is strained at best.

“No—no. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s none of your business.” Seungcheol sounds more angry than anything else now and not a second later, there’s a muttered curse and the phone clatters against the coffee table.

Jihoon holds back in the corridor for a few minutes after the call ends, then slips stealthily into the room.

Seungcheol’s moved into the kitchen now, and is currently poking at a something at the sink and wearing – _Jesus Christ_ – He's wearing a pair of worn, navy sweatpants that pool around his feet and hang off his hips and perfect ass. No shirt. His tanned skin and chiselled abs are there for Jihoon's greedy eyes to eat up.

Jihoon shoves a hand through his hair and forces himself not to look at Seungcheol for long enough to swear under his breath. Because he'd been doing a brilliant job of forgetting how he'd woken up this morning.

“Good morning.” He calls out, voice scratchy as he pads into the kitchen.

“Morning cupcake.” Seungcheol answers brightly, then pours him a cup of coffee without asking.

Seungcheol doesn't say a word about the phone call, or about their weird moment last night. But if Jihoon’s not mistaken, there’s an uncharacteristic tightness in the line of his body, a heavy caution in his eyes as he passes Jihoon the milk and sugar.

Jihoon takes a seat at the breakfast bar and takes his first sip of coffee, wishing desperately that he had the power to materialise a shirt over Seungcheol’s torso so, _you know,_ he can regain the ability to _blink_ again.

Alas, he has no such powers.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he tried to keep his eyes from straying to his Partner’s toned back.  He’s doing a lousy job if it—the scene of last night’s dream replays again, complete with— _soap-slick bodies pressed together. Jihoon’s wrists held tightly against the tiles as Seungcheol slides his cock into him at a maddeningly slow pace._

Jihoon squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories, dislodging them with a sharp shake of his head.

When he opens his eyes again, Seungcheol’s staring at a skillet in his right hand, a furrow between his brows like he’s forgotten what it’s used for. It’s strange to see him of all people looking out of sorts and borderline awkward.

“Everything okay?” Jihoon asks over the steam from his mug.

Seungcheol jerks a little in surprise—“Huh? Uh, yeah, yeah—great.” He answers, darting his eyes away before he looks at Jihoon. He sets the skillet down on the hob and turns to open the fridge door, staring inside briefly, before closing it again.

“Uhm. I think I’ll make an omelette for breakfast. Do you want one?” he asks, opening the fridge _again_ —this time to fetch the eggs. 

His matter-of-fact tone doesn't fool Jihoon at all.

He’s clearly distracted.

Jihoon gives him a measuring look, then blinks and takes a long swallow of his coffee when he realizes his gaze had drifted to Seungcheol's shoulders.

“Yeah—sure. I could eat.”

Seungcheol seems placid enough as he cracks, and whips and tosses eggs over a hot skillet, all while still shirtless, like he’s purposely trying to _torture_ Jihoon. But his usual mindless chatter is absent, and there’s a pinch above his eyes when he slides a massive herb and brie omelette on Jihoon’s plate.

“Toast?”

“No, no. This is enough. Thanks.” Jihoon says, grabbing a fork.

He watches as Seungcheol turns away and cracks a few more eggs into a bowl. 

He isn't sure why giving his partner a hug _now_ seems like the thing to do. It just does. So Jihoon sets down his fork, jumps off his stool, and presses himself against Seungcheol's back, cheek resting on his naked shoulder blade.

He flounders for a moment, realising that maybe hugging his partner when he’s naked from the waist up is the _absolute_ worst idea. Then flounders some more wondering where to rest his hands. Where it would be  _safe_  to rest his hands. If anything about this can be considered 'safe.'

He settles for wrapping his arms around Seungcheol’s waist, because that's fairly neutral territory—except it feels like a mistake when Seungcheol’s back stiffens with muscle and tension— _shock._

“I haven’t done this in a while. Am—am I doing it right?” Jihoon murmurs against Seungcheol’s back.

Seungcheol's hands close over his arms, holding onto him. “I’m not quite sure _what_ you’re doing if I’m being honest.”

Jihoon glares into Seungcheol's shoulder, which really isn't as effective as he wishes it was. But it's where his face happens to be at the moment.

“I’m trying to hug you!”

“Really?” Seungcheol chuckles, a low rumble. Back shifting in amused little twitches under Jihoon's cheek and chest. “Oh, right. Well— _sure_. You’re doing a great job. I’m so happy you like the omelette.”

Jihoon sighs.

The hugging got him a laugh at least. Maybe the ‘ _hug Seungcheol better_ ’ plan isn't a total washout?

Despite their height difference, Jihoon can’t help but notice how easily they fit together, although he’s almost certain he resembles a Jet-pack latched on to Seungcheol’s broad back.

And he hates his brain for phrasing it like that.

Hates it.

“I’m not hugging you because you made me breakfast. I was trying to make you feel better. I thought hugs were meant to make people _feel_ better.”

Seungcheol fingers dig in to his forearm, just a little. “You’re trying to make me feel better?”

Jihoon nods, not lifting his head from Seungcheol’s shoulder. “You’re sad about something. I think. Or angry. I’m not sure which to be honest, but I’ve never seen you like this and I don’t like it. Is it because of that phone call this morning? Because you seemed pretty pissed off about that, and I swear I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, okay, but the door was cracked open and I couldn’t resist listening in. And _yeah_ , that’s eavesdropping I guess, but my intentions were noble because you sounded angry from all the way in the bedroom and I had to know why. And then I come in here and you’re all shifty eyed and quiet and I just wanted to cheer you up.” He finishes, just slightly out of breath.

He feels an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks, especially when Seungcheol glances over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow at him.

“And your plan was to _hug_ the bad feelings away?”

Jihoon winces, embarrassed.

“You’re right—this was dumb.” He says, unwinding his arms and twisting away.

But before he can take a single step there are fingers curling around his arm, tight in a way like he might try and drag himself free. Jihoon _does_ try to shake himself free anyway, but Seungcheol simply grips him tighter, pulling him back and crushing him against his chest

“No—it’s not dumb. It’s sweet. You’re so sweet cupcake.” Seungcheol says, making a pleased humming sound in the back of his throat as he attempts to sever Jihoon’s spine in half with the force of his hug.

Jihoon whines in protest because he didn’t sign up for a chiropractic adjustment this morning, but Seungcheol’s grip loosens a second later, tension bleeding out of him with a sigh.  

Jihoon melts that much closer, finally able to appreciate the hard muscles of Seungcheol’s chest against his cheek.

“Why—why are you angry with your dad?” He asks after a minute, pointedly not thinking about how much he wants to run his hands down Seungcheol pectorals.

“It’s not important.” Seungcheol says, instead of replying properly.

Jihoon frowns. He doesn’t appreciate the deflection after that embarrassing verbal landslide, but then Seungcheol leans down, and he must press his lips to Jihoon's forehead, because Jihoon sees him get close and feels it happening, but he kind of doesn't think it's possible. Because, you know,  _it can't be_.

“More coffee?” Seungcheol asks, all innocence, like they forehead kiss all the time.

Jihoon can only blink at him for a minute.

He doesn’t know what else to say except, “Yes, please.”

* * *

 

“I expected better from you, Detective Lee.” Captain Namjoon says, pointing his finger.

“Wow. _Excuse me_?” Jihoon gasps.

Seungcheol's glare manages to be dangerous in a way that never bodes well for anyone. “Wait. Why are you signalling him out? We _both_ were there. We made the decision _together_.”

“Exactly.” Jihoon huffs, even though a small voice in his head correctly points out that it was all Seungcheol's idea actually. The best (and worst) ones always are.

Jihoon has just accepted it as a given when it came to his partner: when Seungcheol has a brilliant idea, it takes off like a home run ball on a clear blue day, and when he has a terrible idea, well ... Jihoon invariably ends up spending a week filing a mountain of police reports. Actually, the excessive police reports seem to be pretty consistent whether the idea is good or bad, so Jihoon has to assume it’s simply that Seungcheol's plans spontaneously generate more police reports than the average person's.

Namjoon stops pointing his finger at Jihoon—before Seungcheol sees fit to break it.

“You were meant to be the responsible one, Jihoon. Seungcheol’s the hot head. That’s how the partnership balances itself out. Two hotheads calling the shots is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Jihoon sits back in the chair and throws his hands in the air. “No one got hurt, nothing went boom. Why can't we say it's win and call it a day?”

“Yeah!” Seungcheol agrees, mirroring his posture. “And in Jihoon’s defence, going under cover without authorisation is pretty tame compared to some of the things I’ve gotten away with in the past. Jihoon may have agreed to go along with my plan and all, but he’s tamed a lot of the recklessness out of me.” He says, looking over at Jihoon expectantly, like a giant, obedient puppy.

It doesn’t take much for Jihoon to picture a tail, happily wagging behind his partner’s back.

Honestly, Seungcheol would be the best police puppy ever and Jihoon would take him home in a hot second. Even if he does chew all the furniture and barks at the mailman.

Jihoon has a hand out before he knows it, reaching between their seats to touch his partner in gratitude. Thankfully he has the wherewithal to divert it at the last second and pat Seungcheol on the shoulder graciously, instead of petting him on the _head_ like he’d originally planned.

“Exactly. _Thank you,_ Seungcheol.” Jihoon says, sharing a smile with his partner before facing the captain. “And at the end of the day Captain, we _got_ the guy. Doesn’t the end justify the means?”

Captain Namjoon shoots him an unimpressed look. “Not if the _means_ involve exhuming a dead body, stealing it and then posing as a _corpse_ in a mortuary to catch a suspect.”

Well of course it’s all going to sound worse when you put it like _that_.

“Okay—I’ll admit, that was a _little_ extreme.” Jihoon says, grimacing.

He has no idea what on earth possessed him to go along with it. What  _always_  possesses him to let Seungcheol run with his insane ideas. Even when they're brilliant. Which he's learning is not an excuse.

“But we really needed to get this sicko off the streets Sir.” He’s compelled to point out.

“Yeah!” Seungcheol speaks up. “And how else were we going to catch him? He didn’t leave any evidence behind, and the only friends he had were the dead bodies he _felt_ up in the morgue.”

Namjoon makes a sharp exhale, like he’d been holding his breath. “Well, all your hard— _unauthorised_ work, may be in vain. His lawyer is filing against criminal liability. He’s declaring it as entrapment, which means his confession could be tossed before the case even makes it to court.”

“ _That’s bullshit_.” Seungcheol interrupts with a snarl. “We didn’t provoke him to be a fucking sicko. He was a fucking sicko before we got anywhere near him, and we have that videotape to prove it. His lawyer can file all the phony rebuttals he wants, the judge is going to laugh in his face when he sees that tape.”

Captain Namjoon doesn’t look convinced that will be enough.

“That’s up to the DA’s office to decide—,” Namjoon continues calmly. “They’re going to contest his claims of course, but the point is, they shouldn’t have to. If you had of stuck to procedure—nobody would be in this mess.”

Jihoon considers the merits of arguing some more, and finds none. He’s no lawyer, but he knows that even with a full confession on the table, taking this case to court has been made that much harder by their actions. Seungcheol too remains silent for once.

“I should suspend you both— _without_ pay,” Namjoon threatens, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers together, like a villain. “But, as it so happens, the DA’s office has requested your assistance with a case. And I’ve been lead to believe that spending the day with Yoon Jeonghan is punishment enough for any cop.”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. As punishments go—that really isn’t one, but there’s a speculative gleam in the Captain’s eyes that he doesn't like one bit.

“What case do they need help with?”

“It’s the Bridge murders case, actually.” Namjoon offers with a suspiciously serene smile. “Negotiations with Kwon Jin-Ho have reached an impasse, and apparently he’s only ready to testify against Yoon Tae-Young and his crew when he’s sure _someone_ is doing _something_ about his brother’s murder. That’s where you guys come in, or, one of you anyway.” He amends, and—Ah— _there’s_ the clincher.

Jihoon turns to look at his partner—Seungcheol cocks his head. “Just one of us? Why can’t we _both_ go?”

Namjoon’s smile wavers slightly. “Because I also need one of you to fill in a slot for ‘Ride Along’ duty next week. Not a lot of officers volunteered for Rookie training, and I owe the Police Academy instructor a favour. I’d recommend Jihoon assists the DA’s office, and Dimples handles the rookies—but you can decide amongst yourselves who does what. You’re both capable of handling things— _independently_.”

Inexplicably, Seungcheol’s expression darkens. “This is a fucking set up!” He jabs a finger at the Captain, “You’re doing this deliberately Namjoon. I already gave you my answer—why are you pushing this?”

Jihoon tries not to let his surprise show at the conversational shift.

He’s not sure _what_ they’re talking about anymore, but it feels like Seungcheol’s rehashing an old argument that he hasn’t been privy too. Instead of wading in, he keeps his expression impassive as he waits for the Captain’s response.

Namjoon himself looks shocked at the outburst, though his expression eases gradually to something between disapproving and imploring.

“You’d prefer the suspension?” He asks, tilting his head a little.

Seungcheol crosses his arms, his mouth a tight line. He reminds Jihoon a little of himself just then.

“Yeah, maybe I _would_. Whatever game you and the commissioner are playing at, count me out. I’d rather take the suspension than be--.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” Jihoon interjects quickly, placing a pacifying hand on Seungcheol’s knee. “He doesn’t mean that Captain—do you Seungcheol?” He says, eyeballing his partner.

He doesn’t get why Seungcheol is so wound up about the captain’s offer, but anything’s better than a suspension surely.

Seungcheol eyeballs him back in a way that very clearly says _‘What the hell are you doing? We shouldn’t agree to this.’_

After a tense moment, and a lot of eyeballing back and forth, Seungcheol's shoulders relax and he snorts a quiet, “ _Fine_.”

Jihoon pets him consolingly on the knee, then turns back towards the captain.

“We’ll happily accept the punishments instead. But, with regards to Jin-Ho, we’ll have to cherry pick what we share of course. It’s still and open case, and some details we _need_ to hold back.”

The captain looks surprised and a little impressed. “As long as he thinks we’re doing something about it—cherry pick all you like.”

“Great, thank you.” Jihoon sighs, getting to his feet. “Are we excused?”

“ _You_ are.” Namjoon says, his tone flippant. The look he slants at Seungcheol is less so. “Seungcheol, hold back for a minute—I need a word.”

 

* * *

 

Jihoon wishes he could read lips, so he could at least have some clue as to _what_ the Captain is discussing with Seungcheol at this very moment.

He’s not reprimanding him, that’s for sure, because the door is shut and they’re speaking in low voices and Jihoon _knows_ the captain never spares an officers pride when it comes to disciplinary measures.

But it’s not good, whatever it is.

Seungcheol’s still in his seat, with the captain standing in front of him. But instead of facing Namjoon head on, Seungcheol’s staring off to the side, a familiar frustrating expression colouring his handsome features.

It’s out of character, _yet_ , perfectly in keeping with the strange way Seungcheol’s been behaving around him lately.  

Oddly, his partner, who is famous for leaping without looking when it comes to saying what’s on his mind, had been quieter than usual. Where once he was lax and laid-back, he is now coiled, determined, focused. He’s a little more restrained around Jihoon too. Even away from work, he touches him less openly and is a little more reserved with the _flirting_ than usual.

Jihoon doesn’t think he should let that bother him as much as it does, but he can’t help but miss the way Seungcheol used to wink, touch and flirt with him in his offbeat, brash way of his.

He _has_ caught Seungcheol staring at him a few times, long and silent, like a man trying to solve a particularly difficult problem. And while there's nothing different about the look in his eye, there's something suspicious in the way Seungcheol instantly averts his gaze, the way he looks out the window blindly afterwards.

Something subtle has changed between them—that’s for sure. Jihoon can’t put his finger on  _what_ exactly has changed, and if asked directly about his thoughts on his partner, he’d stick by his standard, ‘Hardworking, kind, intelligent, and in possession of a wicked, inappropriate sense of humour that comes to play at the oddest times.’

While he wouldn’t be _lying_ —he’d certainly be leaving _something_ undefined out. He wouldn’t call it dick crushing _desire_ , but Jihoon knows objectively someone else might label his feelings towards Seungcheol just that.

More to the point, they’re not feelings he should act on right now.

 _Correction_.

They’re not feelings he should act on. Full stop.

He just can’t afford to risk unsettling what they have. Seungcheol and him fit together in ways he didn’t expect them to, and despite the _dream_ , Jihoon accepts that their partnership is worth ignoring the way his heart aches and his skin flushes with want sometimes when Seungcheol smiles at him or stands too close.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes after Seungcheol storms out of the Captain’s office, Jihoon finds him kicking the vending machine in the corridor.

"Did it swallow your money?" Jihoon says, walking over.

"No." Seungcheol gives the machine another kick.

"Oh. Right. Well—you know, destruction of city property is a misdemeanour."

"No kiddin'," Seungcheol says, but doesn't stop what he’s doing. When Jihoon catches his shoulder, Seungcheol shrugs it off quickly, turning to glare at him. "What? You gonna _arrest_ me?"  He snaps, letting his anger bleed through his usually calm exterior.

Jihoon suppresses a frown.

Seungcheol sounding angry and defensive isn’t anything new, but Seungcheol getting angry and defensive with him _is_.

Jihoon needs to pull this back to somewhere comfortable, somewhere they can talk like they always do. 

"I absolutely would if you hadn’t of replaced my cuffs with those gag fur lined ones.” Jihoon scoffs, patting his partner’s chest amiably.  “That was not cool by the way, I was so embarrassed pulling those out."

Seungcheol laughs, obviously recalling the memory. It's less tense than it's been the last few times, but nowhere near the carefree laughter that's typical for him. He sounds more guarded than usual.

“Dude. What’s wrong?” Jihoon says, brows pinching with concern. “Your snappier than usually, and even your laughter doesn’t sound right.”

"Sorry," Seungcheol mutters under his breath. He leans back against the machine, and hangs his head. “I don’t mean to snap at you. You’re the _last_ person I should be taking anything out on. Just ignore me today—I’ll get over it.”

"Get over _what_? What's going on, Cheol?," Jihoon says, stepping in close. He lets his hands glide gently up Seungcheol's arms, rubbing the muscles beneath his thin shirt. He can feel the tension start to bleed off.

“What did the captain say to you? What was all that stuff you were saying about a set-up?” He asks, then braces himself for the inevitable bad news.

The look on Seungcheol's face is quietly sheepish when he answers, “It’s, uhh—need to know.”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. “You’re my partner and my best friend, there is literally _nothing_ that I _don't_ need to know. I need to know _everything_.”

Seungcheol screws up his face. “Okay, maybe it's more like 'better if you don't know' than strictly  _need_  to know.”

Jihoon frowns; Seungcheol being evasive is _never_ a good sign. “Great. Awesome— _thank you_ , Seungcheol. That in no way terrifies me. I will absolutely _not_ be losing sleep over this suspiciously vague reply tonight. Good chat.”

Seungcheol sighs and leans closer. Cool fingertips cup Jihoon’s cheek as Seungcheol shuts his eyes and presses their foreheads together.

“I don’t want you to worry. Honestly Jihoonie, it’s nothing. I can handle it.” Seungcheol says, keeping his eyes closed.

Jihoon swallows his disagreement, too distracted by the feel of Seungcheol’s hair brushing against his skin, the fan of his eyelashes against his cheeks. It’s difficult to keep his vision from blurring, with Seungcheol so close.

“Okay—” He murmurs, sliding his left hand up to rest on the back of Seungcheol's neck, squeezing gently.

He doesn't stop to think about what they look like, standing in the corridor like that. Everyone pretty much ignores them now anyways. They've been together for so long and they do their job too well. It brings them a certain amount of breathing room, for which Jihoon is infinitely grateful.

“—But you can tell me anything, you know that, _right_? I’m here for you.” He whispers.

Instead of stepping away and laughing at how epically corny that had sounded, Seungcheol curls a hand around Jihoon’s nape, his stubble brushing lightly against Jihoon's cheek, against his ear as he buries his face in the hollow of Jihoon’s neck.

“Jihoon, I—” He’s about to say something—then jerks his head back suddenly, a wide grin breaking on his face. “—did you just say I was your _best friend?”_

Jihoon frowns. “Don’t deflect.”

Seungcheol actually pouts, and it looks disturbingly appealing on him. “You’re the one who’s deflecting. Did you or did you not just say I was your best friend?”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “I’m reconsidering that opinion right now. You don’t deserve the title.” he says, aiming for a detached sort of levity.

Seungcheol’s mouth falls open in exaggerated surprise. “So, what you’re saying is—at this exact moment in time, _I’m_ your best friend? Me— _Choi Seungcheol_ , the guy who drugged your orange juice and also the guy you made an official complaint about because I walked around shirtless while the air-con was broken last summer?”

“Oh….” Jihoon feels his cheeks burn. “…..You _know_ about that?”

Seungcheol tips his head up, his smug grin becoming brighter, _wider_. “I do now.”

Jihoon groans, shoulders slumping miserably.

This is about as far as he can get from how he'd imagined this conversation going and there’s an uncomfortable swooping sensation in his stomach telling him he’s possibly been a dick this whole time. But, in spite of everything, Seungcheol is still standing there, smiling like his day has been officially made.

“I’m your _best friend_.” Seungcheol repeats, _elated_.

Jihoon huffs loudly, rolling his eyes. “Well, who else is it going to be? Not Mingyu surely,” He snaps, pointing at Mingyu as he saunters up to use the vending machine. “He’s the idiot who steals my lunches.”

“ _Hey_.” Mingyu looks taken aback at having been unwilling drawn into the conversation and then promptly insulted.

“Hey, Gyu,” Seungcheol whispers, leaning forward conspiratorially “–Jihoon just told me I was his best friend.”

Dropping his face into his hands, Jihoon hisses, _“Would you stop saying that!”_

He feels the need to smack Seungcheol up-side the head, but he doesn't see that it will do much good at this point. Seungcheol’s already straddling the threshold of the bullpen, raising his fist in the air and announcing it to the entire station, “EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND LISTEN UP. JIHOON SAID I WAS HIS BEST FRIEND!”

People actually stand and clap for him. Jihoon wants to crawl under his desk and die.

Mingyu shrugs affably. “Makes sense. Isn’t he _your_ best friend?”

“ _Of course he is.”_ Seungcheol says slowly, like it was just fucking obvious. “But don’t you see the significance. _Jihoon_ is the one who said it. That’s _huge_.”

Jihoon sighs. It’s practically etched into his gravestone now: _Here lies Jihoon—Seungcheol was his best friend._

“This is a momentous occasion.” Seungcheol announces to the corridor at large. His arm slides around Jihoon, hand resting warm and heavy against the curve of Jihoon’s shoulder. Then slowly, very slowly, he leans in and presses his lips to Jihoon’s temple.

Jihoon's cheeks flush with heat, and he shifts, pushing into the touch almost without thought.

“We should celebrate.” Seungcheol says, smiling morphing into a smirk against Jihoon’s cheek. “Let’s go get something real to eat— _best friend.”_

Jihoon swallows, looks straight down the corridor. “Fine. But you’re paying.”

 

* * *

 

Seungcheol’s craving something greasy, so he takes Jihoon to a hole in the wall within walking distance of the station.

“We should probably try and factor some vegetation into our diet at some point,” Jihoon says as he slides into the stool. “We’re too young to die of cholesterol induced heart failure.”

Seungcheol smiles and hands him a menu. “Fries are _technically_ a vegetable.”

“See. It’s this kind of logic that’s to blame for me going up a shirt size.” Jihoon mutters and disappears behind a menu, only to put it down a moment later, “So—about this Jin-Ho thing? How do you want to play it?”

Seungcheol takes a deep breath. “You should be the one to speak to him. I’m not exactly _tactful_ when it comes down to laying out the facts of a sensitive case or comforting grieving families.”

Jihoon looks surprised at the suggestion.

“That’s not true. You were amazing with Mrs Park. Remember how she cried on your shoulder for like two hours? You were very comforting.”

Seungcheol wrinkles his nose. “She also groped my ass, slipped me her number and told me to call her when I got off duty.” At Jihoon’s slack jawed outrage, he waves a hand dismissively. “And that’s different anyway. She was an innocent grieving widow, Jin-Ho is an asshole who cut a deal with the DA to save his sorry ass. I’ll probably just piss him off or insult him, or even beat him up, and we can’t afford to fuck this up for the DA. Besides—you’d still be better at it. This case is like your _baby_.”

Jihoon huffs like he's not sure if he should be insulted or not. “It is _not_ my _baby_.”

Seungcheol shoots him a pointed look. “It _kind of_ is. You’re like a proud parent whenever you talk to someone about it. Which is cute, but also a little disturbing because it involves six dead bodies.” He says with some amusement.

Jihoon shakes his head, then knocks the back of his hand affectionately against his elbow. “Fine. You can train the Rookies. But if they cry on your shoulder, make sure it’s _genuine_ this time.” 

Seungcheol snickers, turning back to his menu.

They’ve just placed their order when Seungcheol’s phone sitting on the table lights up with an incoming call.

It's from his father.

Seungcheol picks it up and turns it in his hand, biting his lip.

He knows he should answer it, but he really, really doesn't want to do it.

“Aren’t you going to get that?” Jihoon asks him, jerking his head in the phone’s direction.

Seungcheol twitches. “ _No_.”

Jihoon’s eyebrows slant down in confusion. He leans over to get a better look at the screen.

“Who is it?”

Seungcheol claps the phone shut, turns it to vibrate, and sets it back on the table.

“My dad.” He replies, only slightly bitter. He can practically see the questions swarming in Jihoon’s eyes, but he doesn't dare explain why he’s been dodging his father’s phone calls for the past month. No sense in making his partner anxious just because _some_ people can’t take no for an answer.

“What does he want?” Jihoon asks, face all warmth and worry.

“To demean me. To tell me to get my ass in gear and work harder. What else.” Seungcheol huffs, glaring at his menu.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a hint of a crooked smile tug at the corner of Jihoon’s mouth.

“Doesn’t he know that’s _my_ job?” Jihoon says, knee brushing Seungcheol’s under the table, a touch of something dangerously close to affection in his voice.

That is a quirk Jihoon has developed over time: he touches Seungcheol more often than he used to, sometimes even going as far as doing Seungcheol’s ties in the morning or giving him friendly hip checks as they pass by each other.

Once upon a time, those gestures would have made Seungcheol ecstatic—but now they leave him conflicted. He finds himself almost  _desperate_  to say something teasing, sexual, or overt in response—to reach out and thread their fingers together, or even to rest his hand on Jihoon’s thigh and _squeeze_. But he finds it hard to repeat his initial cockiness with Jihoon, terrified that anything even  _hinting_  at his infatuation with his partner would send Jihoon running and end their tentative friendship forever.

And so he chews his lips to shreds instead as Jihoon chatters away, unaware of Seungcheol’s fingers cramping with the pressure of staying fixed in his lap.

It's a painful conundrum, all the worse because Seungcheol now knows things he didn’t know about Jihoon before. How can Seungcheol set aside the knowledge that his infatuation is returned?

And it _is_ returned. Seungcheol’s certain of that.

Jihoon _wants_ him. Jihoon’s even _dreamt_ about him for crying out loud.

Seungcheol’s spent a great deal of time wanting him too—Imagining what it could be like between them.

Why shouldn't they do something about it?

It would be _so_ easy to reach out, pretend to stretch, and brush Jihoon's cheek with his knuckles. Subtle, no, but _easy_.

Seungcheol considers it, wants it, but then he recalls the look of fear in Jihoon’s eyes when he woke from that dream and he can’t bear to see it again.

They aren’t lovers; they’re friends, partners, and Seungcheol is slowly beginning to think that _maybe_ this is all he can have, if nothing more, maybe close friendship will be enough.

When their food arrives, Seungcheol refocuses his energy on feeding the cramp in his belly, listening as Jihoon plans out what information he’ll share with Jin-Ho and the possibility of getting Jisoo’s input on a few profiling details. As usual, he gets lost in the conversation for a couple minutes when Jihoon jumps back and forth between pieces of evidence.

His partner has an amazing ability to recall _exact_ details from his memory, stringing them along in a seamless thread of commentary. Only stopping to peel his bun apart and hold it out for Seungcheol to snag the pickles.

The slice of Red-Velvet cake Seungcheol’s ordered comes out a minute before they get a call from the station, alerting them to a new case. Instead of doing the smart thing and asking for a doggy bag, Seungcheol just shovels the entire thing in his mouth and ends up with cream-cheese frosting all over his lips and cheeks.

It earns him an exasperated eye roll from Jihoon, and an unexpected hand reaching up to wipe the smudges away.

“God, Cheollie—what are you like!” Jihoon says, frowning.

Somewhere between Jihoon reaching his hand out to swipe frosting off the corner of Seungcheol’s mouth, and then actually licking it off the pad of his thumb, is when it happens.

Something in the familiarity of the gesture, the comfort of it, has Seungcheol stunned.

Jihoon’s never lacked for confidence around him—but he’s never expressed it in so intimate a way before. Has always exhibited a stringent respect for personal space, only broken when he feels especially strongly about something. But here Jihoon is, serenely fixing Seungcheol’s tie and smoothing down his collar with an expression of such naked _affection_ that Seungcheol feels almost embarrassed witnessing it.

It’s as though he’s witnessing something unspeakably private.

Jihoon catches himself after a moment and quickly retracts his hand, schooling his features into a scowl that is not quite convincing enough to disguise the colour rising in his cheeks.

“There,” Jihoon says, glancing up at him. “That’s better. You look more presentable now.”

“Mmm,” Seungcheol says, noncommittal, because it seems safer than,  _‘I’m so in love with you.’_

 

* * *

 

“Be honest with me Jihoon—have I gained weight?” Seungcheol inquires, bringing Jihoon's attention back to their discussion.

“Wh—wh—what?” Jihoon stammers in reply, trying to ignore the way his head is _swimming_.

They’d arrived together this morning as per usual. But then Seungcheol had detoured to the lockers to change, and arrived back at his desk a few minutes later in his old police uniform blues.

Jihoon hasn’t been able to think clearly since.

He’s almost sure his mouth is hanging open, and it may even be watering a little. He can’t blame himself, because it’s been _ages_ since he’s seen Seungcheol in that uniform, and— _fuck_ , how could he forget how dangerously _good_ his partner looks in it?

“Remind me again—why do you have to be in uniform for this?” Jihoon asks.

“It’s more practical attire than a shirt and tie for the exercise drills we’ll be running today. But damn—I must have put on weight, cause these pants are tighter than I remember.” Seungcheol says, sliding his hands into the front pockets of his slacks.

He barely manages it, the fit of his pants as indecent as they are. It’s a miracle the pants zipper hasn’t exploded off him, the amount of stress it’s under, straining to contain Seungcheol’s _girth_.

“No. Your pants have always been that tight.”

The words fly out of Jihoon incriminatingly fast.

Thankfully, Seungcheol doesn’t seem to think that’s a weird thing to say to your partner.

Jihoon’s not sure if it’s because Seungcheol’s caught him staring, always known the affect this uniform has and just been too nice to let on like he noticed.

“Really? Have these pants always hugged my ass like _this_?” Seungcheol asks, straightening up a little, and only then does Jihoon realize that Seungcheol is actually — fuck —  _presenting_  his ass for Jihoon’s consideration. Like a baboon. Or, Jihoon is forced to append, like an adult film star.

Jihoon swallows and looks away, not without difficulty.  “Yeah. Kind of.”

Seungcheol nods, a speculative look in his eyes and perhaps there’s something a little _knowing_ around the corners of his mouth too. Like maybe Jihoon’s not playing it as cool as he hopes he is.

“Well—do I at least look _good_?” He asks, sitting down on the edge of Jihoon’s desk.

Jihoon stalls for a moment, imagines himself saying,  _You know you do. You’re always the best looking man in the room,_ but thinks better of it.  

"Sure— _I guess_.” He says instead, shrugging uncomfortably.

Seungcheol makes a noncommittal sound, hand wondering down to fiddle with the corner of Jihoon’s note pad. A second later, he picks up a pen and begins doodling in the margins.

Jihoon would absolutely smack him on the hand for that, except Seungcheol seems to be sketching out the upper cleft of a heart.

On second thought—he’s probably sketching out the cleft of his butt cheeks.

Jihoon should absolutely smack him now. Those notes are important.

Before he can reach a reproachful hand out, Seungcheol speaks up, “I’m going to miss you.”

Startled by the confession, Jihoon looks up, meets his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but, we’re spending the entire day apart.” Seungcheol murmurs, dragging the pen down the margin and drawing yet another butt cheek. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been pretty inseparable for the last year. I don’t think I can handle a day without you nearby.”

Jihoon surprises himself by laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous Seungcheol! It’s only going to be for one shift and we’ll see each other later and— _oh my God_ , why are you _sulking_?” He huffs, hating the sudden, unhappy twist of his partner’s mouth.

Seungcheol’s drawing butt cheeks all over the place now and staunchly avoiding the Jihoon’s attempt at eye contact. In that moment, he is so painfully, unfairly adorable that Jihoon can’t tear his gaze away from him.

“I don’t want to spend the day with rookies. Who’s going to laugh at my inappropriate jokes?”

“You’re not _meant_ to be cracking jokes with them, Cheol. You’re _meant_ to be showing them the ropes, setting an example. Besides, it’s not like I laughed at your jokes that much either.” Jihoon drawls, not trying to hide his amusement.

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, letting the pen fall out of his grip. “Guess I’m going to have to find someone _else_ to call cupcake for the day.”

That childish threat should not make the breath catch in Jihoon’s throat the way it does.

It definitely shouldn’t make him lean over to pinch Seungcheol on the thigh.

“You better _not_.”

Seungcheol smiles just enough to show one dimple — but it’s not his usual sneer or smirk, it’s something softer, almost sweet. “I _knew_ you loved that nickname.”

Jihoon breaks his stare instinctively, redirects it back at the safe — if not infuriating—vista of his notebook covered in Seungcheol’s tiny butt cheek doodles.

"I don't know why I'm friends with you sometimes. You doodle all over my notes and embarrass me constantly." He mumbles.,

"Because it would be too sad to have to tell people you don't have any friends at all?"

"That must be it." Jihoon rolls his eyes. "But seriously—you should get going. You’re going to be late for your training session.”

Seungcheol uses two fingers to tilt Jihoon’s chin back up, “Just can’t wait to get rid of me, huh.” he chuckles, then puffing out his lower lip in a mock pout, he leans forward, slowly, until the tip of his nose is almost touching Jihoon’s. “Tell me you’re going to miss me.”

Jihoon tips his head away, rolling his eyes long sufferingly. “ _Fine_. I’m going to miss you for those whole _eight hours_ we’ll be apart. Now go, you giant _baby_. And stop pouting for fucks sake—you look ridiculous.”

Seungcheol smiles hugely at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he jumps off the desk.

Jihoon watches him saunter across the bullpen, appreciates the view.

It's only a fraction of a minute later, just as Seungcheol winks at him over his shoulder before he disappears from view, that Jihoon realizes an unexpected truth.

He's in love with him.

 _Oh, god_ —he’s so in love with Seungcheol.

It’s not lust, not some simple-minded need for human contact and orgasms. He's not just idly considering the possibility, not just wondering and starting to fall. He's long gone.

There was probably a point of no return that he passed somewhere along the line—a moment where he could maybe have turned around and stopped himself from reaching this point—but if so, it's long gone. Buried months upon months behind him, so far back he doubts he could pinpoint it among the other memories—memories of Seungcheol tucking him into bed, Seungcheol handing him coffee in the kitchen, Seungcheol grinning and laughing and feeling, more than anything, like home.

It's terrifying, and exhilarating, and for a moment Jihoon can't remember how to breathe.

When he turns back to his work, Jihoon’s startled to find Jisoo has materialized in the seat across from his desk.

“Fuck! You scared the shit out of me, Jisoo.” Jihoon snaps, clutching his chest. “Don’t you know not to creep up on a cop like that. It’s a sure-fire way of getting shot by accident.”

Jisoo lets out a soft laugh. “I’m sorry.” He says, not sounding very sorry, “I didn’t mean to startle you. In fact—I even called out your name twice, but you were _obviously_ too absorbed in more _interesting_ sights.”

Jihoon steadfastly ignores the suggestive eyebrow waggle that follows the explanation; Jisoo’s amused scrutiny leaves Jihoon feeling more unsettled than he wants to admit. The absolute last thing he needs today is for a psychologist to start dissembling the way he _mooned_ at his partner as he left.

He’s thinking a mile a minute, trying to find a way to divert the topic of conversation smoothly to something else, when Jisoo glances down at his desk and says, “Why are you notes covered in tiny butt cheeks?”

Jihoon frowns and flips over to a clean page. “Freaking Seungcheol! He just slips under my defences without even trying.”

Jisoo tilts his head to one side, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to read every one of the thoughts that keep racing through Jihoon’s head. Then, he leans back in his seat and crosses his arms, the corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile.

“So. What’s this case you wanted my opinion on?”

* * *

 

Jihoon had hoped he could get Jisoo to review his Bridge Murder case files before his meeting with Jin-Ho. Unfortunately, the only opportunity he gets is a mere few hours in advance, so it’s a rushed job of trying to explain his latest findings and hoping the evidence he’s collected speaks for itself.

Jisoo  _ooh_ s and  _aah_ s at his psychological dissimilation of the killers MO, pointing out places that he finds particularly well-researched. When he skips to the notes regarding the possible motive for the murders, he turns quiet, contemplative as he reads, and when he makes it to the end, he lifts his gaze and fixes it on Jihoon.

“So, whaddya think?” Jihoon asks.

Jisoo clears his throat, expression thoughtful. “I think—you’ve profiled them as best you can with what evidence you have.”

Jihoon stops twirling the pen held between two fingers. “Oh my god. You’re sugar coating it. You don’t agree with me.”

“Now, hold on,” Jisoo interjects, raising a placating hand, “First of all, I never said that. In fact, I’m impressed with a lot of what I’m seeing here, you’ve paid a lot of attention to details most cops would miss. Secondly, I’m not a cop—I’m a forensic psychologist—I’m _used_ to withholding my opinion on cases because you guys _usually_ don’t want someone poking holes in your theories.”

Jihoon gapes, perturbed.

He doesn’t want Jisoo’s sympathy; he’s been a detective long enough to handle himself in a complicated case, and he doesn’t want Jisoo holding his own experienced opinion back because he doesn’t think Jihoon can _handle_ it or something.

“Jisoo—you don’t have to sugar coat it for me. You’ve got more experience profiling suspects than me, and Seungcheol said your input would be valuable. I _want_ your opinion. _Please_. I can handle criticism.”

Jisoo huffs a breath of laughter. He spreads a hand on the table, taps his shoe on the floor and looks for all the world like he's re-ordering his thoughts.

“Do you want my _honest_ opinion?”

“Uh, y _eah_.”

Jisoo frowns at the notes spread on the desk, then looks away, a response half-forming and reforming in his lips too many times for comfort.

“I think your profiling is a little— _rigid_.” He says finally.

“ _Rigid_?” Jihoon echoes, trying not to sound testy. “In what way is it rigid?”

“It’s lacking imagination for one, and I know you’re going to argue that you’re a cop—and it’s your job to lead with the evidence, but the criminal psyche isn’t best analysed through a few case studies in a book. You need to forget everything you learnt in Criminal Psychology 101, because what they cover in the academy is too basic for what you’re dealing with.”

“Rigid _and_ basic. Woah, you’re doing wonders for my confidence.” Jihoon drawls.

Jisoo levels him a reproachful look. “Hey. You asked for honesty.”

“Okay, yes. Sorry.” Jihoon laughs, sheepish. “I may have exaggerated the handling criticism thing, but give me something to work with here Jisoo. What am I _missing_?”

Jisoo hesitates for a moment, then grabs a blank sheet of paper and starts listing points.

“Okay, so you’ve already established that he has a specific type of victim: young, male, criminal background—” He says, jotting each point down.

“They were all drug users too.” Jihoon adds.

“Right.” Jisoo says, “With behaviour issues or a troubled family history. So, I think we can rule out an opportunistic killer who’s killing for the power surge, because his guy is clearly working within some criteria. And I think you’re right about there being no sexual motive to the murders.”

“It just doesn’t make sense for him to be getting any sexual gratification from the deaths.” Jihoon says, nodding along. “Because despite the asphyxiation, the victim’s bodies were otherwise undisturbed.”

“But—” Jisoo stops writing to waggle the pen at him, “—There is _some_ element of gratification involved. Or, there _has_ to be for him to murder in the first place.”

Jihoon’s mind draws a blank.

He clenches his fists tight, then opens his palms out with a huff. “Maybe he just really hates people who do drugs?”

Jisoo sighs melodramatically. “This is what I meant about lacking imagination Jihoon. Yes, it would _seem_ like he does, but then why _these_ six guys, and not some other group of six guys. Why over such a lengthy period of time? Why not just shoot his victims instead of drawing it out painfully? You _showed_ me yourself how these deaths are personal, carried out to an almost ritualistic degree; the killer uses his hands instead of rope; he’s holding on to a vintage packet of cigarettes and marking each body he leaves behind with one.”

Jihoon jerks a hand through his hair, closing his eyes. “Yeah, yeah….that’s a lot of effort to go to kill someone who was already doing a fine job of killing themselves.”

“ _Exactly_.” Jisoo intones, “There’s a motive here and it goes deeper than hate.”

“ _Deeper_ than hate?” Jihoon echoes, wrinkling his nose. “I didn’t think you could _get_ emotions deeper than that.”

Jisoo rolls his eyes, like Jihoon's being unnecessarily dense.

“ _Really_? You don’t think _love_ is a stronger guide for people’s actions?”

Jihoon lets his face show everything he thinks about that idea. “You think he killed six people out of love? Like a mercy killing or something?”

Jisoo frowns at him, not unkindly, but Jihoon gets the impression he's an idiot for not knowing why he's wrong about that.

“Hmm— _no_. The deaths themselves are brutal, prolonged. A mercy killing would have been swift and painless.”

Jihoon makes a face at this, because of course he _knows_ that.

“But,” Jisoo continues, waving the pen at him again. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t kill out of love for something else. And I don’t mean love for another person—although, we can’t rule that out either. But maybe it’s love of a principle he lives by, an ideology he worships. Love can manifest itself it endless ways.”

 _Interesting_ , Jihoon thinks, and jots a small note for himself.

He sets his pen down and presses his hands together, fingers touching his chin. “This is a lot more complicated than I thought.”

Jisoo nods sagely. “And that’s why I said you did the best with what you have. You’re a cop Jihoon—you lead with the evidence, and I get that. But sometimes the interpretation of motive and profiling the suspect is not so black and white.”

Jihoon half-shrugs, a minute shift of one shoulder.  “And _usually_ we don’t determine the motive until _after_ we find the killer.”

“True. But in some cases your estimation of the motive can help you get there. This guy has clearly been killing for some time, he’s highly intelligent, knows how to cover his tracks and make you think what he wants you to. To build the most useful profile you can, you have to focus on the one thing the killer won’t manipulate. His reasons.”

Jihoon lets off a disappointed sigh and sits forward. “I’m going to have to review my notes all over again to re-profile this guy, aren’t I?”

Jisoo smiles apologetically. “That’s just my first impression from what you’ve told me. If you send me a copy of your case files, I can have a second look—see if I pick up on anything I missed at first glance.”

“Thanks Jisoo, I appreciate it.” Jihoon grins with relief, “You’ve been really helpful—Seungcheol was right about you.”

Jisoo hums in his throat in subtle agreement. “Seungcheol was right about you too, you’re very— _determined_.”

Jihoon stops tidying away his papers to shoot Jisoo a inquiring look. It's clear from his tone that 'Determined' is nowhere near the word he really wants to use.

Clearing his throat, Jihoon mumbles. “Did he _use_ the word determined, or did he use the word _tenacious_? Obsessed? Stubborn, pain in the ass would also fit.”

Jisoo laughs under his breath. 

“No, it was his word choice actually. He meant it as a compliment.” He says. He folds his hands on the table and looks Jihoon straight in the eyes and says the words again. “Everything Seungcheol’s told me about you is complimentary. If he thought you were in the pain in the ass he would have just said so—Seungcheol doesn’t bother with subterfuge around me. He’s completely devoted to you, you know.”

Jihoon takes a while to reply to this. He isn't embarrassed about it, exactly, but he does wish Jisoo looked at least slightly less matter-of-fact when he said it.

Devoted _is_ a very strong word.

It makes them sound less like partners and more like some old, married couple.

Which, okay—they do act like it sometimes.

Most of the time.

All the time really.

Oh, who is Jihoon kidding. They’re an old married couple. All that’s missing is the twin rocking chairs on the porch and wrinkly skin.

“I must really piss him off though, going on about this case every free minute I have.” Jihoon replies softly, a flush crawling up his neck.

Jisoo laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t think he sees it that way at all. He really admires your dedication. Just maybe—” His eyes dart away from Jihoon’s then, but the rest of him is perfectly still.  He's got the tone of someone who wants to broach a topic and isn't quite sure _how_.

“Maybe _what_?” Jihoon prompts after a lengthy silence.

Jisoo’s gaze flicks back to him, his eyebrows pinched. “Maybe take a break every now and then. Have some fun. For your _own_ sanity.”

Jihoon blinks. He’s not sure where this conversation is going. “What do you mean?”

Jisoo rises gracefully from his chair, levelling a no-bullshit look Jihoon’s way as he rounds the desk.

“Look, Jihoon—I have no doubt that you’ll catch this guy one day, but will it be worth it if you’ve stopped appreciating the world around you? You’re young, attractive and friendly enough not be trapped in here every hour of the day. You deserve someone _special_ in your life, so—don’t miss out on what’s right in front of you.” Jisoo says, patting Jihoon’s hand kindly.

Jihoon can _feel_ the air quotes in that sentence.

In spite of himself, he finds himself nodding, although he isn't certain what he is agreeing to.

Staring down at his notes, he puzzles over what those words mean. He can interpret them about a dozen different ways, and probably none of them would be right, so he doesn't even try.

Before can come up with a suitably vague reply, someone is calling his name.

“Detective Lee!” Jeonghan’s voice calls out from across the room.

Jihoon twists in his chair to see the ADA weaving between the desks towards him.

There's a very brief, almost unnoticeable twitch and a sidelong glance from Jisoo, who quickly gathers his jacket from behind the chair.

“The cars waiting for us downstairs. We’re on a deadline—come on.” Jeonghan says by way of greeting.

“Oh, shit—sorry,” Jihoon says, quickly shoving his notes into a folder. “I almost forgot. I was just getting Jisoo’s opinion on a few things.” He explains, unfolding himself from the chair and pushing himself upright.

When he turns, he finds the two men standing a few feet away, cooling appraising one another.

“Have you met Jisoo?” He asks, shrugging his jacket on. “He’s our new forensic psychologist—Jisoo, this is Jeonghan, the—”

“We’ve _met_ before.” Jisoo interjects sharply.

“Oh….really?” Jihoon says, dividing a look between them.

He’s known the Jisoo for a little over a month and has had several pleasant conversations with him, but this is the first time he’s ever heard him sound so abrupt and irritated.

Jeonghan simply smiles at him, in a way that makes Jisoo's eyes narrow. Jihoon can see the quiet clench of his teeth.

Jihoon clears his throat, quietly. “Well—uhm. Okay then. I guess we should get going?” He stumbles for lack of anything better to add.

Neither man seems to be paying him any attention though.

It’s all become very awkward since there's now very obvious staring match going on in the middle of the bullpen. It has the rather disturbing feel of a bad break-up that everyone's carefully not mentioning.

“I’d be careful what you share with Mr Hong, Jihoon.” Jeonghan says slowly, with only the barest of glances in his direction. “He has a remarkable ability to take an offhanded suggestion and turn it into disreputable _slander_.”

Jisoo’s face tightens. He crosses his arms. “What Mr Yoon is _referring_ to Jihoon, is him asking me to take the stand as an expert witness and then _lie_ about a suspect’s mental capability to ensure he wins a case.” He says, and suddenly everything sprouts several more twists and turns than Jihoon was expecting.

Jeonghan tosses his head like an irritated horse. “Oh, please. That is such an over exaggeration. I _never_ asked you to lie!”

Jisoo looks like he wants to snort, and is only holding back out of politeness.

“You told me not to disclose a defendant’s family history of rampant paranoid schizophrenia. I may not be familiar with all legal terminology, but I’m sure they call it—contempt of court.”

Jihoon can't help the surprised cough of laughter at that.

It earns him a brief, withering look from Jeonghan, before the DA turns his piercing gaze back to Jisoo.

“I merely suggested you _not_ bring it up during the trial, that’s completely different to _lying_.” Jeonghan says, half to Jihoon and half irritated, giving the impression this is something he's already protested a number of times, and will continue to protest every time Jisoo brings it up.

“You suggested I _deceive_ the jury by holding back crucial evidence.” Jisoo counters automatically, struggling to keep a serene expression.

Jeonghan fails completely at looking innocent. Jihoon really isn't surprised at all that the ADA has a callous disregard for proper court procedure.

That would explain a lot actually.

“Yes. Evidence that the defendant’s attorney used to declare a mistrial.” Jeonghan’s voice is flat, petulant, but his attention on Jisoo is both sharp and focused. “Now a psychopath is loitering in a mental institute instead of a jail cell like he should be.”

Jisoo’s face does something peculiar that is both a grin and a glare. “Oh, so you agree—he _was_ psychotic!”

Jeonghan glares. “Don’t twist my words Hong Jisoo!”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of doing that. That’s clearly your job.” Jisoo says without missing a beat.

Jeonghan’s jaw drops in outrage.

Jihoon's fairly sure that he's just witnessed the Hong Jisoo equivalent of a swift kick in the ass.

He thinks about intervening, before things escalate, and settles for sighing loud enough for them both to hear.

Which does absolutely _nothing_.

They’re practically nose to nose now, staring each other down with an icy intensity.

Jihoon wonders how reprehensible it would be to push their heads together and make them kiss, then accepts he’s probably spending too much time with Seungcheol because that’s just the kind of far out, crazy idea _he_ would come up with.

“Okay! That’s enough you two, calm down. You’re both professionals here—start acting like it.” He says instead, and he's half aware how patronizing that sounds.

It seems to work though, as both men step away from each other quickly.

Jisoo does a perfect impression of someone looking chastened, while Jeonghan storms off towards the elevator in a waft of grey suit and expensive aftershave.

“I’m sorry about that Jihoon.” Jisoo sighs, guilty. “I should know better than to lower myself and parry with Mr Yoon.” He says, sparing a glance at the ADA waiting by the elevator.

Jeonghan’s safely out of hearing distance, although the squinty eyed look he shoots back suggests he heard that find and he’s considering coming over again to give Jisoo _another_ piece of his mind.

“Jihoon—I can’t wait forever. The car is downstairs!” Jeonghan snaps, disappearing into the elevator in an explosion of coat and drama.

"I’m coming," says Jihoon, puffing out his cheeks comically and widening his eyes. “Thanks Jisoo—see you later!”

* * *

 

Shonwu’s brother Jin-Ho has been in witness protection for little over two months while the district attorney’s office built a case against Yoon Tae-Young.

His testimony will prove crucial in sending Tae-Young away for a long time, and although he was initially reluctant to agree with Jeonghan’s offer, it soon became apparent that it was his best chance at staying alive. He’d made his own counter offer of course, since he effectively held all the cards keeping the case intact, and insisted that he should be briefed on all evidence regarding the ‘bridge’ killer and his brother’s murder.

It’s uncommon for such requests to be made and it all sounded a little dubious to Jihoon, but that’s beside the point. Ultimately they’d agreed to Jin-Ho’s terms and, generally speaking, Jihoon kept his promises when a high profile target like Tae-Young was involved. 

As Jin-Ho is still in protective custody, they can’t just drive up to the safe house directly. First, they must take an unmarked police vehicle to a warehouse just outside the city limits. From there they switch cars, and take a blacked-out SUV to the safe house they’re keeping Jin-Ho in.

Two federal marshals, suited and sombre and armed to the teeth, are inside. They direct Jihoon into the next room after relieving him of his sidearm, courteously, with apologies for the necessity and reassurances of its return.

Jeonghan catches Jihoon’s eye in the corridor and nods, quietly confirming. He’ll wait outside.

Jin-Ho is waiting in the living area, seated on the couch next to the window. The blinds are down and curtains partially drawn over them, but persistent rays of Busan sunshine creep through all the same, dancing over the glass table in the centre and the tumbler of scotch in Jin-Ho’s hand.

Jin-Ho himself is pale enough to look _ghostly_. Which suggests he's been getting little to no sunlight exposure since he went into hiding. Even here, under protection in the safety of a safe house, the guy’s not taking any risks.

When Jihoon shuts the door behind him, the man cranes his neck enough to look him up and down.

“I was expecting the big guy. But I guess you picked the short straw, huh?”

Jihoon scoffs. “Hardly. My partner’s been saddled with training recruits all day. _That_ is most definitely the short straw. Anyway, your number of visitors are limited for security reasons, and we both agreed I had a better grasp on the details of the case. So—here I am.”

Jin-Ho smirks, swilling the scotch in his glass. “So, are you the brains of the operation and he’s the brawns?”  

Jihoon pauses in the process of draping his jacket over the back of the couch to think about that, then slowly starts rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, smiling.

“That seems to be the general consensus. Although I’m perfectly capable of handling myself in a tight situation, and Seungcheol’s a lot more intelligent than people give him credit for.”

Jin-Ho shifts his shoulder, dismissive. “He doesn’t come across that way. Seems like a block head to me.”

Jihoon smiles tightly, hands clenching into tight fists. “I appreciate that you’re under a lot of stress Mr Kwon, being cooped up in here and waiting to testify. So, I’m going to let that comment _slide_. But if you insult my partner again—I won’t hesitate to beat the shit out of you and call it self-defence.”

Jin-ho eyeballs him.

Jihoon almost eyeballs himself—because where the _hell_ did that come from?

Did he really just say that?

Fuck.

Seungcheol must really be rubbing off on him, because all he knows is that he heard something less than flattering about his partner and he _couldn’t_ just ignore it.

The thing about Seungcheol is that he _excels_ at underachieving. He leads people towards assumptions that are wrong and lets them underestimate him in every way. Sometimes it drives Jihoon crazy, but he understands it's part of what Seungcheol does. People dismiss Jihoon as a lightweight all the time, and he's become ruthless about turning that to his advantage, encouraging people to view him as young, weak, even helpless. In the same way, Seungcheol lets people judge him for the slouch of his shoulders or the rugged good looks and the drawl he adopts. He doesn't care if people think he's more muscle than brains, or that he's everyone's best chum when the drinks are flowing, because the reality few people see is that Seungcheol is brilliant in his own way. He's as persistent as a fucking bloodhound and he's quick to make connections, associations, to see the bigger picture and all its tiny details.

Jihoon won’t stand for a bad word to be said about him.

There is an awkward silence, in which Jihoon feels the strange urge to break down laughing at the entirely too terrified expression on Jin-Ho’s face. There's a wariness in his eyes that Jihoon’s never seen directed at him before and, _honestly_ , he’s a little proud of himself for it.

Jin-Ho glances around nervously, like Jihoon's planning to throw down right there in the six inches of space between the couch and the coffee table, then he clears his throat and whispers, “All right, yeah, sorry. I was out of line.”

“Yeah, you were.” Jihoon says curtly, dropping into his seat. He pulls out the casefile and flips it open to Victim #1.

“Now. Here’s what we know so far…” He moves on smoothly.

No sense dragging this out. 

* * *

 

“You think you can catch this guy?” Jin-Ho asks, once they’ve reviewing the time-line of evidence Jihoon had mapped out.

“When we get another lead, yes—we’re going to do our best.” Jihoon says, meeting the man’s enquiring eyes.

He knows he should never promise things to victims’ families like this. But it’s bad enough that Jin-Ho has gone five years without knowing his brother had died gruesomely and his killer has yet to be brought to justice. Jihoon won’t simply brush him off now.

“So this case isn’t your priority right now?” Jin-Ho suddenly looks alarmed, and Jihoon mentally kicks himself. 

Jihoon nods. “Technically—yes. The case is on the back burner at the moment. When we get a new lead we’ll investigate it, but there’s been more dead ends than new leads for the last few months.”

A different expression clouds Jin-Ho's face as they regard each other, and after a moment he hesitantly begins, “You don’t seem to happy about that.”

“I’m not.” Jihoon says, voice a low curl of frustrated honesty. “I really want to catch this guy, but we have orders to focus on newer cases, so I can’t devote as much time as I would like to this.”

Jin-Ho leans forward, just a little, and the light draws a line of shadow down his nose.

“Why? Why do you care, Detective Lee?”

Jihoon blinks at him. “I’m a _cop_ —it’s my _job_.”

Jin-Ho gives him a look so piercing Jihoon could swear he could see right down to his vital organs. At last, he shakes his head.

“Yeah, so what? My brother was a junkie. Nobody cared about him when he was alive ‘sept for me and maybe his therapy group. Why give a shit now that he’s dead?”

Jihoon resists the urge to channel his excess energy into nervous pacing. It takes a great deal of focus to sit still and meet Jin-Ho eyes, but he lets his determination show.

“With all due respect, it’s not just about your brother. There are five other victims involved in the case. Catching their killer means closure for their families, it insures the safety of the population and hopefully prevents a psycho from senselessly killing someone else. Maybe your brother wasn’t an outstanding citizen when he was alive, but he didn’t deserve to be killed. If we only investigate the deaths of people we deem deserving of justice, we’d be no better than the killer himself.”

For a long time, Jin-Ho doesn’t speak. There is only the muted chirping of birds from outside, the crackle of ice from Jin-Ho’s glass, refilled twice since they’ve started.

Finally, Jin-Ho lets out a shaky breath, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Thanks for coming.”

* * *

 

Seungcheol can’t wait for this disaster of a day to end.

He appreciates that he _too_ was once a Rookie, that once upon a time he _too_ needed someone to show him the ropes. He just hopes he wasn’t such a fucking pain-in-the-ass know it all during _his_ ride-along.

Thankfully, it’s just one day. And he’s done his best to introduce the new Rookie and generally just talk him through the basics of life on the streets without scaring him or making him think danger and excitement are waiting around every corner.

In fairness, it was somewhat hyperbolic of him to characterize the day as a disaster because of the Rookie. The fact is, Seungcheol’s just angry and irritable to have spent it away from _Jihoon_.

It felt a little like sacrilege, driving the cruiser with someone else in the passenger seat, but it wasn't the first time the captain had tried to separate them and probably wouldn't be the last. If anything, spending the day with a group of trigger happy rookies has given Seungcheol a new appreciation for his partner.

And he already appreciated Jihoon plenty.

On the solitary drive back to his apartment, the police radio crackles with an incoming call.

 _[Dimples 112—how do you read?]—_ the dispatcher says.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but accepts the hail anyway. “I’m off duty.”

_[We know. Just patching an emergency call through.]_

Seungcheol frowns, then shrugs. “Alright.”

It’s another few seconds before another voice comes across the line.

 _“Don’t hang up,”_ His father says without preamble. _“We need to talk.”_

Of course, they do.

Seungcheol laughs in spite of himself. “How did you even _get_ this call patched through?”

_His father chuckles quietly in return. “Oh, I have my resources.”_

Seungcheol quirks a surprised brow.

His father wouldn’t usually stoop so low as to ask for a favour, which tells Seungcheol he’s really worried about him. He shouldn't be, though. For the first time in quite a while, Seungcheol knows both exactly what he wants and what he needs to do to have it.

“Resources, huh? Would that be Captain Namjoon by any chance?” Seungcheol rejoins, wondering how he ought to feel about the fact that so many people are joining forces to pester him about a promotion he just _doesn’t want._

Instead of admitting to anything, his father sighs, “Seungcheol, son, _listen_. This promotion—"

“I’m gonna stop you right there—" Seungcheol is interrupted by his own yawn, an eye-watering thing that makes his jaw click. “I left Daegu because I was sick of you interfering with my job. Nothing’s changed Dad. I don’t care what you think—I don’t want to hear it.”

The line goes quiet, and for a moment, sleep-dazed as he is, Seungcheol imagines that his father may actually accept the refusal gracefully.

Instead, his father exhales heavily, a hiss of air and static through the radio. “If you just listen to me for one minute—"

“Nope. Gotta go.” Seungcheol interrupts, voice sharpening with impatience. “Take care. Love you. Bye bye!” He says, before disconnecting the line abruptly.

A few minutes later, he finds himself stuck in traffic; the lanes locked solid on both sides, like fate has intervened to block him in.

If he’s not careful, he could turn this into a metaphor—but he turns up the volume on the stereo instead, singing softly under his breath.

When he'd been young, Seungcheol had wanted his father's approval more than anything. But in his father's eyes, nothing he'd done was ever good enough: his grades at school and college had never been as high as they should've been (especially after his mum had died; it had taken Seungcheol a long time to care about school again), his position on the football team wasn’t good enough, his police academy certificate wasn't as valuable because he hadn't graduated in the top percentile... the list went on and on.

He'd been just shy of twenty-five when he'd stopped giving a shit.

Maybe it was because he hadn't been a kid anymore, or maybe it was because he'd seen how miserable his father was excelling at everything, but suddenly pleasing the man had become the last thing on his list of priorities.

It had been an odd, freeing feeling.

* * *

 

When Seungcheol finally does arrives home, he's not entirely happy to find that practically every inch of the living room floor space is covered in crime scene photographs. _Again_.

Jihoon’s standing in the centre of the room on then only clear area of carpet. From the tiny furrow in his brow Seungcheol can tell that there's crime-solving going on in _some_ capacity.

He debates how hard it will be to make his way over the wave of crime scene photos to make himself something to eat. How Jihoon can leave so many things on the floor and not expect boot prints on them bewilders him sometimes. And of course he'd always be able to tell it was him. Even if he borrowed Jihoon’s shoes.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes and carefully steps round the glossy photos so he can get to Jihoon at least.

“You never really switch off—do you?” He says dryly.

Jihoon snaps his head up, stormy face clearing in the space of an instant, eyes lighting up with relief. Then he flings an arm out and catches Seungcheol’s elbow.

“Oh good, you’re home. Please take off your clothes and lie down on the floor.”

Seungcheol’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

 _This is it_ —he thinks.

It’s finally happening.

They’re going to make love—right here on the living room floor….surrounded by crime scene photographs. Creepy—but somehow okay.

Seungcheol flicks open the buttons of his shirt so quickly, if a world record for undressing existed he’s probably just broke it. A shirt sleeve catches on his wristwatch as he tugs it down his arm, followed by an unattractive moment of flailing, but Seungcheol manages to wrench his arm free to focus on the task of unbuckling his belt.

“I’ve had a shitty day working without you Hoonie, and this is the best thing I could dream of coming home to.” Seungcheol says, grinning.

He's fairly sure he rips the button off his pants getting them open and down over his hips.

Jihoon doesn’t seem to be taking off any of his own clothes however, but that’s fine. Seungcheol’s pictured how this moment would play out hundreds of times, and he wants the pleasure of stripping Jihoon naked all to himself.

Seungcheol’s pants puddle around his ankles, and in kicking them off he realises he’s still wearing his shoes. He’s reaching down to untie the laces when Jihoon interrupts him. “Keep the shoes on.”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow as he straightens up.

“You’re an odd little duck Jihoonie. But if that’s what you want.” He grins, snagging the waistband of his boxers.

“You should probably keep your boxers on too.” Jihoon adds, staring fixedly at the floor. “This carpet is really prickly.”

Seungcheol shrugs off the explanation. “Then we should _probably_ move this to the _bedroom_.”

Jihoon stares up at him as though he’s legitimately lost his mind. “But there’s more floor space here. If I’m to position you to my liking, we’re going to need _lots_ of floor space.”

“Jesus Christ.” Seungcheol’s voice shakes all the way out. This all sounds very athletic and promising indeed.

“Besides,” Jihoon continues over him, turning to point at the door. “—the angle of the door is _perfect_ for how the killer will be standing.”

Seungcheol's lost all understanding of the Korean language. Because that makes no sense at all. He feels like this is the sort of moment where he should know things. There are important things which he thinks he should know right now. Before things become awkward.

“Jihoon, what are you--”

Jihoon completely ignores his mental lapse and tugs him forward a little.

“Now lie down here—and try and position yourself like the corpse in these photographs.”

Seungcheol resists Jihoon’s attempt to thrust him towards the haphazardly drawn chalk outline on the floor.

“Wait a minute,” Seungcheol begins, blinking at a photograph of a man lying crumpled in a hotel suite—wearing only his dress shoes. “Are we re-enacting the crime scene from the Hilton Hotel murder?”

Jihoon nods, not hearing or perhaps ignoring the sharpness in Seungcheol’s voice “Y _eah_. Remember I told you how the mistresses witness statement sounded rehearsed?”

"It had completely slipped my mind, seeing as how you only mention it ten times per day," Seungcheol says, looking at his partner, steady. "Eleven times, I'm sure, will be the charm."

Jihoon seems to grasp his irritation now, and squirms under the weight of his gaze. “Well, now I think there’s something fishy about the crime scene too. I need to visualize it in 3D—and I kind of need your help for that. You know I work better when I have something to walk around and study.”

Seungcheol pulls a face. "You asked me to strip off because you wanted me to pretend to be the _dead_ man?"

He already knows the answer's going to be yes. Because of course,  of course it’s not going to be— _No, I want to ride you in the middle of the living room Seungcheol._

"Yep. Now—if you’ll just lie down." Jihoon waves again, like Seungcheol is a bird that can be shooed.

“No.” Seungcheol says, crossing his arms. 

Since he’s only wearing a pair of boxers and his shoes, this probably makes for a less than intimidating sight.

Jihoon pouts.

Seungcheol gets the oddest feeling this isn't the first time Jihoon’s pouted when someone’s refused to role-play as a corpse, and it very probably won't be the last.

"Oh, c’mon Seungcheollie. It's impossible to draw conclusions from staring at a few photographs," Jihoon says and manages to make it sound like Seungcheol's disappointing the entire scientific community.

Seungcheol sighs out a breath, but ultimately relents.

He sits down on the carpet, reluctantly, and attempts to get himself into position. Head slightly tilted, facing the doorway. One arm flung out sideways, the other curved in at his hip. Legs almost straight.

Jihoon decides his positioning isn't good enough and starts making minor adjustments to his legs and arms, tips his head up just slightly.

"There, that's it, perfect, shut your eyes and don't move like a good corpse."

Seungcheol shuts his eyes, though he resists the urge to laugh, because that probably counts as moving, or at least being distracting in a way that will make Jihoon _whine_ at him.

He can feel the faint, warm scratch of the rug under him, the soft curl of it against the knuckles of his out-flung hand.

Then something hits the floor by his head, a low drum of liquid on the rug.

Seungcheol cracks his eyes open and realises it's water, from the glass on the table, poured around his head in a vague approximation of the bloodstain in the photographs.

The water seeps into the carpet, the pool just touching the edge of Seungcheol's hair.

It's cold.

And wet.

“Is this necessary?” Seungcheol drawls. Shuffling around on the prickly rug, cold and shirtless so Jihoon's brain can work in 3D is not his idea of a fun evening.

“Yes.” Jihoon snaps. There's irritated impatience there. “I need to recreate how the victim bled out to visualize everything properly.”

Seungcheol's sorely tempted to mutter something about this being ridiculous, because it feels ridiculous, he feels ridiculous. Instead he chooses to help Jihoon by recreating the sound effects of a man bleeding out on the carpet.

“Ahhhh-EEEKKKHHH. Hssss. I’m ddyyinnngg.” He groans theatrically.

“Sound effects are unnecessary.” Jihoon monotones and Seungcheol snaps his mouth shut with an audible click.

He hears Jihoon push back onto his knees, then get his feet under him. He walks around him, a slow circuit.

“Interesting.” Jihoon murmurs, far away. Seungcheol suspects he's already forgotten about him. “The blood pattern on the carpet doesn’t match up with how his body was found.”

“How so?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon doesn’t answer him immediately. He starts circling the crime-scene timeline laid out in photographs on the floor, following some sort of complex thought that absolutely must be dealt with right this second.

Seungcheol manages to become part of the scenery long enough that he’s sure he could fall asleep on the floor if he wanted. Because Jihoon's brain almost certainly doesn't need him.

He’s just about to fall asleep, when he hears the rustle of cloth and the faint sound of Jihoon’s feet on the rug as moves to crouch next to him again.

“The bullet entered him from front left side, killing him instantly.” Jihoon explains, fingers strangely gentle yet perfunctory when they touch his chest.

“But the bullet entry point was angled _upwards_ , and the blood spatter wasn’t on the bedsheets, it was on the carpet. If he’d been shot from the door, like the girl said he was—the angle would have been straighter.” He adds, skimming his fingertips up Seungcheol’s left abdominal.

Seungcheol shivers, knows it isn’t entirely from the cold. He’s immensely glad his partner’s fingertips aren’t dancing any lower. Because pretending to be dead while being tickled is a little beyond him.

“If he was standing in front of the bed, there would have been blood splatter on the sheets.” Seungcheol deduces, catching Jihoon’s line of thought.

“Exactly.” Jihoon says, then goes still suddenly, fingers still pressed over Seungcheol’s chest.

There's a long minute when Jihoon doesn’t move his hand, when he doesn't talk, where Seungcheol can't hear him at all.

It’s like Jihoon is watching him, careful and uncertain now.

Seungcheol thinks that Jihoon already has what he needs, that he's already filled in the missing pieces. That this continued touching, in some strange way, is something else entirely.

It feels like _indulgence_.

“Hoonie?” Seungcheol calls out curiously, without opening his eyes.

Jihoon’s hand retracts immediately, as if burned. Seungcheol hears him move away quickly, creating a safe distance between them.

Seungcheol opens his eyes, blinks, squints. The room's a lot brighter than he remembers. Jihoon’s standing at the far side of the room, picking up photographs off the floor.

“Jihoon, what’s—”

“So what I was thinking was—” Jihoon quickly interrupts. He’s carefully got his back to Seungcheol, but Seungcheol can see his ears are bright red and there's more than a little satisfaction to be had in that. “—what if he wasn’t facing the door when he was killed?”

At Seungcheol's raised eyebrows, he elaborates. “What if he was facing the _bed_?”

“So—it was the _mistress_.” Seungcheol states.  

Jihoon doesn't dignify his clever deduction with an answer, just stares down at the photographs in his hands a little _too_ intensely to be seeing anything. Classic Jihoonian avoidance.

Seungcheol sighs and pushes himself up into a sitting position. “If it was the mistress, how did she—”

“The wife helped her.”

“The _wife_!” Seungcheol echoes incredulously.

How does Jihoon do it?

Although he's watched Jihoon pull the metaphorical bunny out of the hat gig hundreds of times by now, he still always feels like he's trying to see the trick, trying to look behind the curtain for the magician's assistant.

“Yeah, she’s the one who bought the gun on the black market. I just can’t figure out _why_.” Jihoon sighs.

Seungcheol rolls his head sideways to look at him. “Maybe she was in love with her. People do things you wouldn’t expect for the people they _love.”_

Like re-enacting crime scenes on their living room floor for instance.

Jihoon doesn’t seem to be getting his drift though—too busy collecting the crime scene photographs instead. Or maybe just too busy avoiding _eye contact_. 

Seungcheol stumbles upright, debates on whether to put on some clothes or just hang out in his boxers and flex for Jihoon. It’s very wrong to want to tease his partner, but Jihoon does that adorable _‘I don’t know where to look’_ thing when Seungcheol struts around shirtless, and _yeah_ —he could go for the confidence boost right now.

“If you’re finished with our little corpse role-play…” Seungcheol trails off, flexing his biceps unnecessarily. “Am I free to go? I wanna make a sandwich.”

“No, you can’t, you’ll ruin your appetite.” Jihoon huffs.

Seungcheol blinks at him. “Ruin my appetite for what?”

As if on cue, the oven timer dings.

“That’ll be the lasagne!” Jihoon announces, practically skipping into the kitchen.

Seungcheol follows after him automatically. The kitchen smells wonderful, of melted cheese and fresh herbs, and he watches numbly as Jihoon dons some mitts and pulls a lasagne out of the oven. A delicious, and very _tidy_ looking lasagne—because Jihoon probably trimmed the pasta sheets to fit the dish perfectly and assembled each layer with the tentative exactitude of a bomb defusal squad.

Jihoon’s anal retentiveness isn’t limited to work you see. it leaves Seungcheol wondering how anal he'll be during sex.

Very anal, hopefully.

Very, _very_ anal.

“You—you made us lasagne?” Seungcheol asks, stepping closer.

“I made _you_ lasagne.” Jihoon says pointedly, glancing down at the casserole dish like a proud parent. “I already ate earlier, but I knew you’d be hungry when you got back.”

“You made _me_ a lasagne?” Seungcheol amends, awed.

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like Jihoon’s given him his only functioning kidney—but the lasagne obviously symbolises the deep, meaningful relationship blossoming between them. The cheese bubbling on the surface is some kind of metaphor for their--

 _Okay_. There’s a possibility he’s reading too much into this.

Jihoon looks up at him, brow furrowed. “You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” he says slowly. He sets the dish down on the counter and pulls off his green, plaid oven mitts. “You just mentioned how you were craving it the other day, and I found this recipe online and figured I’d give it a shot. It’s probably not as good as your cooking or anything, but I-”

Jihoon bites his lip then, the unfinished sentence hanging awkwardly in the air.

He looks so adorably despondent, Seungcheol nearly laughs in his face.

“Oh, I’m going to eat your lasagne Jihoon. I’m going to eat the _hell_ out of your lasagne. I can’t wait to get your lasagne in my mouth. I’m going to destroy it—wreck it. You won’t recognise your lasagne when I’m finished with it. I’m going to lick the dish clean after! You’ll be crying--” Seungcheol cuts himself off abruptly, very aware that he’s not talking about lasagne anymore.

“I’d very much like some of your lasagne Jihoon.” He tries again, a little more sedately.

Jihoon brightens, smiling that small, understated smile he rarely shows anyone. He quickly fetches a plate and busies himself with cutting Seungcheol out a nice, large slice while Seungcheol grabs a fork from the cutlery drawer.  

The food’s piping hot, but Seungcheol wastes no time in shoving the first forkful in his mouth.

“Cheol, no! It’s still hot—you’ll burn your tongue!” Jihoon gasps, reaching out to stop him.  

“No, it’s fine—” Seungcheol chews, then winces, rolling around the hot mouthful with his tongue.  “Yep—you’re right. It’s fucking hot. It’s burning my mouth. Water—”

“Here,” Jihoon uncaps and hands him a cold bottle of beer instead. “—take this.”

Seungcheol takes a quick gulp to cool the scorching heat of his mouth, then a slower, thoughtful sip to savour the exquisite taste. For a long minute, he doesn’t understand how this craft beer made it into his fridge. He stares at the beer bottle, mystified by its sudden appearance.

“Wait—where’d you get this beer?” He asks after some deliberation.

“Oh, uhm. That craft beer shop we went to last month. It’s the Micro-brew stuff you like.” Jihoon answers, the tips of his ears turning a delicate pink.

Seungcheol stares at the bottle in his hand, then back at his partner.

“You went all the way across town, to pick me up the good stuff?”

Jihoon offers him a small, self-deprecating smile. “So? I thought it would go nicely with the lasagne, and you like it—don’t you?”

“Yeah, but—this is…..You don’t usually…..You know I don’t expect you to—” Seungcheol says, substituting an awkward hand wave for the rest of the sentence.

“Well—it’s like you said—” Jihoon begins, gaze sliding away to look out the window, the counter, the fridge, before settling back on Seungcheol. “—People do things you wouldn’t expect for the people they love.” He repeats the words slowly, meaningfully, and doesn't look away.

It’s the last thing Seungcheol expects him to say.

He stares at his partner, surprise turning his mind blank.

On the wall behind him, an old clock is ticking the time away, loud in the absence of their voices.

Slowly, Seungcheol sets the beer down on the counter and reaches for Jihoon’s wrist, pulling him into a firm hug.

There's a sharp intake of breath, then a muffled noise of protest against his chest, and then Jihoon's muttering something about not being able to _breathe_.

“I love you too, Cupcake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This update was so originally so large, I split it into two chapters. Otherwise you would have been reading a 25,000+ chapter right now.  
> 2) BLUE BALLS. But we're getting somewhere. Or are we......[soft diabolical laughter]  
> 3) Hope you enjoyed this update! Thank you for reading and feedback always appreciated!


	10. Approach with caution

It’s Jihoon that spots him first, sheltering in an alley beside an old mattress factory.

He can almost make out the dancing sheep that must have once dotted the exterior of the building in bright white paint now turned grey with age.

Jihoon presses up against the wall, keeping a wary eye on the lit tip of the cigarette Tae-Young is smoking. It has started to drizzle, a misty kind of wetness that feels like cobwebs across his cheeks.

"Cheol--" He whispers at his partner, scanning the area up ahead.

“Yeah, I see him.” Seungcheol nods, suddenly at his side and drawing his gun.

Jihoon’s doesn’t like the manic spark of intent in his partner’s eyes; Tae-Young’s armed and dangerous and evidently not alone, but it looks like Seungcheol’s not ready to hold back and wait for back-up like the Captain ordered them to.

“Whatever you’re thinking— _don’t_.” Jihoon hisses, to pre-empt whatever insane plan Seungcheol’s brain in concocting. “We don’t know how many men are in there, and if our intel is right—that was a weapons cache they unloaded earlier. They’re armed—we’re outnumbered, let’s fall back and wait for back-up.”

Seungcheol smiles at him fondly, like Jihoon’s overplaying the need for caution when approaching a warehouse full of criminals and guns!

“It’s taking too long Cupcake. The patrol cars are probably starting an outside perimeter sweep, and we're in the heart of things. It's going to take them a while to circle in.”

Jihoon clamps down the panic and anger the words bring. “We can’t just charge in there. We don’t know how many—"

“Fuck!” Seungcheol says, followed by the sound of two shots from a high-powered rifle.

Strong hands shove Jihoon to the ground just as the plaster behind his head shatters.

He loses his breath for several terrifying seconds, groping blindly for his partner’s arm.

For a few more terrifying seconds he feels nothing but empty air.

"Seungcheol? Cheol—you okay?" Jihoon is saying, scrambling to sit up to check up on his partner. But Seungcheol’s already on his feet and moving across to the other side of the narrow alley to take aim at the shooter.

“Cheol—no! Wait for back up!” Jihoon yells across the alley, frantically trying to catch his partner’s attention. This is a bad idea. Jihoon can't even begin to articulate how many ways this is a very bad idea.

“Stay low cupcake—I got him.” Seungcheol calls out from his position behind a dumpster, just as a bullet strikes the metal near his head.

Jihoon hears the familiar ping of metal and cringes. 

“Woah—that was close.” Seungcheol says. And he’s _fucking grinning_ , soft and fond and ridiculously happy. _While being shot at_.

If it had been anybody else, that bullet would've found its mark, shattered Seungcheol’s skull and killed him instantly. But no, Seungcheol seems to walk with the angels. He has the kind of luck that gamblers only dream about.

When this is all over, if Seungcheol doesn't get himself killed, Jihoon is going to kill him.

Slowly.

Possibly with kisses.

God, what had he done to deserve this?

Jihoon watches as his partner advances along the side of the building, gun drawn. He risks a quick glance around the corner, tries to catch a glimpse of the window where the first shots came from, but he can't see anyone there now. Chances are the sniper has gone inside and is now looking for a way out of the building. He’d either have to get past them or make for the roof.

Jihoon’s not clear on why perps always run for the roof when there is no sensible way off. It doesn't make any sense, but then again, not a lot that happens on the streets makes sense some days.

The sound of a gunshot ricocheting off brick catches his attention.

"Doorway, halfway down. Suspect’s out in the open," Seungcheol shouts, firing down the alley. "Cover me."

Jihoon pops up and lays down covering fire. He hears a sharp cry of pain from the end of the alley and sees one of Tae-Young’s men crumple to their knees.

Bullseye.

He moves up to where Seungcheol is taking careful aim at the guy in the doorway.

"You're not taking me in, pigs," Tae-Young shouts.

Jihoon rolls his eyes.

If he had a nickel for every time someone said that, he and Seungcheol could buy a beachfront property and retire. It’s a nice thought.

Seungcheol is lined up and moving into the open. "It's over Tae-Young. We're taking you in. Up to you whether it's walking or lying down."

Seungcheol's voice is cold and steady.

Jihoon reloads his gun with a speed-loader, and moves up the alleyway.

He can't see Tae-Young from where he’s standing, but all he has to do is watch Seungcheol's movements to know what Tae-Young is doing.

Every shift in Seungcheol's stance, every movement of his eyes, Jihoon follows them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jihoon sees movement at the end of the alley. The other shooter, despite a bleeding shoulder, is taking aim at Seungcheol.

"Down!" Jihoon yells, raising his gun and firing.

The man at the end of the alley stumbles, his shot going wild. Jihoon sees it all happening as if in slow motion: Seungcheol dropping flat on his belly, hand gun still trained on Tae-Young. Tae-Young stepping out of the doorway, taking a bead on his partner, then Seungcheol is rolling to the side, firing awkwardly.

Jihoon raises his gun. “NO!”

* * *

 

Another police cruiser pulls up alongside the ambulance.

Captain Namjoon emerges in a long dark coat and scarf, sliding a cell phone into his pocket.

He looks grim—but then, Namjoon always looks grim.

“What happened to waiting for back-up?” He asks, without preamble.

Seungcheol takes that as his cue to stop playing Tetris on his phone. “And let Tae-Young get away? I don’t think so. He knew we were coming—if we held back he might have escaped and god knows how long it would have taken to track him down again. C’mon Captain, we all knew he wouldn’t go down without a fight. It’s why you assembled a swat team—which took forever by the way. That’s why we stepped in. You’re welcome.”

“It doesn’t mean you should disregard your own safety, Seungcheol. None of this is worth it if we lose a good officer.” Namjoon says, eyeing Seungcheol with unmasked concern.

Seungcheol shores himself up, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. Hopefully he looks confident but not defiant.

“Yeah—but that didn’t happen, did it. We got him—” He says, nodding towards the ambulance where Tae-Young is being treated under its flashing lights. “Or more accurately— _Jihoon_ got him. Blew the gun right out of his hand with a single shot.”

Captain Namjoon looks on, impressed. “Really? Then why’s his leg all bandaged up?”

Seungcheol watches as the paramedics wheel a drugged up Tae-Young on a stretcher in to the back of the ambulance.  

“Jihoon may have _also_ shot him in the knee.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at that. “Completely necessary, I’m sure.”

Seungcheol gives him a one shouldered shrug. “He thought he saw him reach for his gun, but it turns out he was just doubling over in pain. Guess you could call his actions self-defence.”

“Suppose I’ll have no choice but to.” Namjoon drawls. He gives Seungcheol a good-natured shove and heads back towards his cruiser. “Go—on. Get out of here. Get some rest—and congratulate your partner for me. Looks like you boys finally had your _moment_.”

At Seungcheol’s puzzled frown, Namjoon smirks, “Of _truth_.” His expression softens, barely perceptibly. “Guess I was wrong about him. Looks like he _is_ capable of shooting a man to protect you.”

Seungcheol smiles and shakes his head. “There was never any doubt.”

* * *

 

He finds Jihoon at the side of the warehouse, leaning against the wall of the alley, staring at a pool of Tae-Young’s blood with a distant look on his face.

It’s stopped raining, but Jihoon looks exhausted and wet, and the most beautiful thing Seungcheol has ever seen. The mix of emotions that strike Seungcheol then are so overwhelming he has to stop himself from going and putting his hands on Jihoon just to _feel_ him.

“Hey—” Seungcheol calls out as he approaches. “I know I’ve already said this twice, but I think it’s worth saying again. Awesome shot. Even if Tae-Young makes it out on the streets again, he’ll think twice about aiming a gun at you.”

Jihoon’s gaze slowly drifts up from the pool of blood to Seungcheol’s face.

"How can you joke about this?" The words are spoken with enough quiet force to knock Seungcheol back a step.

He blinks and realizes Jihoon is staring him down.

There is something like rage glinting in dark, expressive eyes.

Seungcheol swallows. He’s unaccustomed to this brand of Jihoon’s anger. He doesn't know what to make of it. "Wait. Are you angry with me?"

"Have you no sense of self-preservation at all?" Jihoon replies sharply, looking at Seungcheol unbelievingly.

Seungcheol flounders for a caught-out moment before answering, "I’m guessing I did something you don’t approve of, but I can’t figure out what."

Jihoon looks up at him silently for an age, then his calm breaks somehow.

It’s subtle, just the slightest pinch between his eyes and his mouth twists into a tight line, and when he punches Seungcheol hard in the shoulder, there is something else besides anger flashing across his face.

He looks _afraid_.

“Hey— _ow_. What the hell was that for?” Seungcheol huffs, rubbing the spot Jihoon hit.

“You damn well know what for. We should have waited for backup.” Jihoon points out in clipped tones.

Seungcheol sighs heavily. “The Captain’s already lectured me Jihoon, not you too.” He says, even as the show of indignation ignites a sliver of irrational relief.

“Yeah, me too.” Jihoon shoots back, his expression twisted with exasperation. He runs a hand over his hair, making it stick up on one side. “Dammit Seungcheol that was too close for comfort. You nearly got shot.”

“That’s a risk we take with the job. You know that.” Seungcheol counters in a deliberately measured tone.

Jihoon presses a hand to his temple like a headache is coming on.

“But it’s not a risk you _had_ to take. You just chose to close in on the suspect, even though we had back-up on the way. You decided to put your life in danger—needlessly. And for what? So we can put a thug behind bars a little sooner? Why risk your ass? Who are you trying to impress?”

“You.” Seungcheol says at length, that sole helpless word sneaking out despite his sincere efforts to keep quiet for once in his damn life.

For an instant—a heartbeat so brief Seungcheol could almost believe he has imagined it—a wounded expression flashes across the stern lines of Jihoon’s face.

He looks gutted. Wide-eyed and hurt and distinctly like he is about to either cry or throw something at Seungcheol's head. The look shutters quickly, blanking too fast to be anything but a deliberate effort.

Jihoon's voice is strained when he finally speaks.

“I’m so tempted to punch you in the face right now—you know that?”

Seungcheol scratches his head and can’t think of anything witty to say. “I’m getting that impression from you. But—uhm— _why_?”

Jihoon steps forward. Measured, deliberate, utterly demolishing what little space remains between them.

When his hands frame Seungcheol's face—force him to look into his partner's eyes— Seungcheol’s insides churn. He doesn’t think Jihoon has touched him like this before, but he can’t say for sure.

“You think that’s what I want?” Jihoon’s voice is quiet and fierce. Powerful despite the strained control undercutting every word. “You think I want to be the reason you’re riddled with bullet holes, or the reason you’re lying up in a hospital bed, or God forbid, the reason you get k—”

Jihoon's eyes close, and a visible tremble courses through him.

His hands slip from Seungcheol's face to his shoulders, and Seungcheol holds still. Waits for his partner to look at him.

When Jihoon finally does, he is wearing an expression so honest and open that the sight makes Seungcheol's chest hurt.

“That wouldn’t impress me Seungcheol—that would break me.” Jihoon says, voice raw and rough with gravel.

Seungcheol closes his eyes and leans in to rest his forehead against his partner’s, more grateful for Jihoon than he can begin to put into words. He lifts his hands to pull Jihoon closer, curls his palms warmly over Jihoon's hips, thumbs tracing the sharp jut of bone.

For a few seconds, all they do is breathe each other in, and Seungcheol feels the tension wind like a steel cord through his spine. He resists—barely—the urge to dip his head and capture Jihoon’s lips in a kiss.

Some days it seems this thing between them will snap him in two, and other times it's the only thing holding him up. It's confusing and amazing and Seungcheol forgets how to breathe when Jihoon whispers his name.

“Cheol?” Jihoon says, his hands gripping Seungcheol harder.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t—don’t do that to me again, _please_. Promise me you’ll not pull anymore stunts.” Jihoon’s voice is tight, a quiver in it betraying the emotion behind the words.

Seungcheol stands straighter and squares his shoulders. Not so much bracing for a fight as shoring up his resolve.

“I can’t—” He starts, hesitates, then plows forward despite better instincts. “I can’t promise you that Jihoonie.”

Something more complicated flickers across Jihoon’s features, accompanied by a faint downward turn of his mouth. There's fresh confrontation in Jihoon's posture, in the jut of his jaw, in the vertical crease at the centre of his brow.

“Shh, hey—don’t,” Seungcheol whispers, touching a thumb to the frown line between Jihoon's eyes. “Look—I’m sorry I worried you Jihoonie, but I don’t want to promise you something I can’t stick to. You have your skill set and this is mine, and maybe my actions seem impulsive sometimes, but I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t start something I wasn’t sure I could finish. My life is finally heading in a direction I’m happy with and the last thing I would do is jeopardize _this_ by getting myself killed.”

It is patently  _not_  a promise. But it's as close to one as he can give.

Jihoon grudgingly nods in understanding. His lashes drooping as the fight bleeds out of him.

“Besides—” A pause, a swallow past the feelings caught in his throat, but Seungcheol manages to add, “If I’m ever out of the picture. Mingyu’s always available as a good substitute. And I hear he’s a better cook than me, so it won’t be all _that_ bad.”

He receives an exasperated smile in answer.

“That’s not even funny asshole.” Jihoon huffs, punching him in the shoulder again.  

Seungcheol laughs and massages his shoulder, knowing he’s going to have a tiny fist-shaped bruise as a reminder that Jihoon cares.

There’s a throat clearing sound from somewhere to their left. They both turn to the source and find Vernon’s grinning face looking back at them.

“Are you guys having a domestic? Should I come back later?”

Seungcheol laughs, “Just give us a minute, okay?”

“A minute? That all you need?” Vernon snickers, then scrambles away quickly at the glare Jihoon levels him.

“C’mon.” Seungcheol says, linking their fingers together and pulling Jihoon towards the exit. “You’re freezing. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes and into my bed.”

Jihoon scowls a him like he’s thinking about punching him again.

* * *

 

Seungcheol can’t sleep.

He _should_ be sleeping of course, because it’s been a long, stressful shift and when even Jihoon has called it quits for the day, then no mere mortal should still be awake.

Despite that, he’s been twitching restlessly for the past few hours, in a king-sized bed that feels virtually empty.

Jihoon's there too of course—but he’s tucked against the far edge, which might as well be in Siberia with the distance. Seungcheol wasn't expecting anything more than sleep, but still—if he's going to be in bed with Jihoon, he'd at least like to know he's there.

He can’t do a damned thing about it of course, because that is how lines get crossed, how friendships end. It’s one thing to wake up in each other’s arms—another thing entirely to instigate it when wide awake.

After another ten minutes of fidgeting—Seungcheol just can’t help himself anymore.

He _needs_ this. They both do really.

They’ve both changed a little since they’ve exchanged _‘I love you’s,_ and the way Seungcheol sees it—a guy’s not going to tell another guy he loves him and not be up for some midnight spooning.

Right?

Right?

Besides, Jihoon is dead to the world, a vast sea of sheets between them, and Seungcheol doubts anything will wake him up at this point.

Slowly, carefully, he works his way across the bed until he can fit in behind Jihoon, an arm around his waist.

Unexpectedly, Jihoon wakes up, with a sudden, sharp intake of breath as his eyes flutter open.

“Cheol?”

“Uh—yeah?”

_Fuck—fuck—fuck._

Seungcheol can feel his own heart racing in his chest, knows Jihoon has to be able to hear it too.

He waits for a comment about spooning, because they don’t do _this_. Not when they’re both awake and very aware of it.

Thankfully, Jihoon doesn’t protest, doesn’t say anything. He just rests his hand over the arm curled around his waist and sighs.  

Seungcheol squeezes him lightly, and whispers, “Go back to sleep Cupcake. It's too early to get up.” Jihoon murmurs something that sounds like agreement, presses back into Seungcheol’s warmth and drifts off again.

And with that, Seungcheol sleeps like a baby the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

Tae-Young’s case goes to court and the verdict is unanimous. Judge and Jury find him guilty of a total of 47 charges, and when Jeonghan comes back from the courthouse with the news, he grabs a handful of paper clips from Jihoon's desk and tosses them in the air like confetti.

"What are you doing? Someone's got to clean those up again!" Jihoon grouches, but Jeonghan grabs him by the wrist and twirls him around.

“I’m so happy I could kiss you!” Jeonghan announces loudly, then drops his voice to a whisper only Jihoon will hear, “Except I won’t of course, cause Seungcheol’s watching and I don’t want to make him jealous.”

Jihoon glances instinctively at Seungcheol, whose face hasn't changed. “Why would it make him jealous?”

“Oh,” Jeonghan says, smirking. “Are we still playing that game?”

Jihoon feels his cheeks flaming; he can't help it. He opens his mouth to refute what Jeonghan’s suggesting, except Seungcheol chooses than moment to step in and manhandle him out of Jeonghan’s grip.

“Yeah, yeah, alright—congratulations Hannie.” Seungcheol huffs, shielding Jihoon behind him. “You’ve got your guy behind bars, now get your greasy mitts of my cupcake. Only I’m allowed to manhandle him.”

Jeonghan looks mildly insulted. He gestures between them lazily, “Case in point.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes and brings the conversation back in line, “How many years is Tae-Young going to get?”

“Sentencing is tomorrow.” Jeonghan chirps, perching on the edge of his desk. “But considering the severity of the charges, he’s looking at _life_.”

“Still doesn’t seem like long enough for that son of a bitch.” Seungcheol mutters.

“What about Jin-Ho? Now that it’s over, is he moving back home?”

“No, that’s not an option for him. If there’s anything criminals hate more than the justice system, is another criminal turning them in. I’m sure there’s a hefty price-tag on his head now, so he’ll stay in the witness protection programme till we get him a new identity.” Jeonghan makes a noncommittal movement, not quite a shrug. “His testimony really nailed Tae-young to the wall though, and I owe you guys a couple hundred drinks for that I think.”

Jihoon’s already holding up a hand to politely refuse the offer. “That’s okay Jeonghan—you don’t—"

“Cupcake’s not a big drinker,” Seungcheol informs him, stopping Jihoon’s protest by slinging an arm over his shoulder. “But you can buy us dinner. Maybe one of those expensive restaurants that only cater to snooty, stuck up lawyers.”

“That seems fair.” Jeonghan laughs, surprisingly unoffended. “But you’ll have to bring someone else along I can talk to. I refuse to be a third wheel with you guys across the table, _mooning_ at each other.”

Jihoon feels a familiar surge of panic in his chest.

He can feel his secret growing large and heavy in the room. He tries to act as if the comment is inconsequential, as if his heart isn’t beating hard enough to echo in his ears. A squeeze on his arm brings him up sharp.

“Hey! I can ask Jisoo to come along.” Seungcheol suggests.

Jeonghan narrows his eyes dangerously. “I’d rather eat packaged food _with_ the packaging on then dine with Hong Jisoo.”

Seungcheol blinks at him, clearly not tracking.

“But if you insist,” Jeonghan huffs, throwing his hands up in premature defeat. “I guess I don’t have much choice! You’ll have to invite him though, because I refuse to be the one who has his gesture of companionship thrown back in his face because Hong Jisoo’s moral compass is so much more fine-tuned than everyone else’s.”

Seungcheol now looks like a bewildered puppy. “But—"

“And you be sure to tell him that if I hear one belittling comment about my profession—I won’t be held responsible for what I’ll do.” Jeonghan says, already striding across the bullpen, shoes clicking crisply.

They watch until the elevator doors close behind him, then Seungcheol pokes him lightly in the side. “What was that about?”

Jihoon snorts and shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later.”

* * *

 

The restaurant they go to is an exclusive little French place in Dalmaji Hill called _Merciel_. Not somewhere Seungcheol would usually consider dining in because he’s a cop, on a cop’s salary—not some Billionaire Mafia King pin, and the cost of the appetizers alone is enough to make him a little light headed.

But Jeonghan’s footing the bill tonight, and the Richebourg Pinot Noir he’s already requested is a clear sign he’s not hurting for money.

“Are you sure you guys don’t want to sit across from each other, instead of _next_ to each other?” Jeonghan asks over his menu.

Seungcheol looks up at him from where he’s been trying to read past the French, then exchanges a brief look with Jihoon who looks just as confused as he is.

“Why would we do that?”

Jeonghan snorts a little. “So you can stare into each other’s eyes across the dinner table?”

Seungcheol glances sideways at Jihoon, who’s faintly flushed and looking more uncomfortable by the second.

He tries to think of some way to respond to that, but Jihoon saves him from it.

“Or maybe _you’re_ just suggesting that so _you_ can sit across from Jisoo and stare into _his_ eyes.”

Jeonghan looks horribly disgusted, like Jihoon’s just insulted the last three generations of his family.

“Ha!” Seungcheol points, grinning, because one bad turn deserves another.

A waiter appears at the side of the table, smiling brightly, “Will there be another guest joining you?”

Despite being flustered, Jihoon manages a genuine smile, “Yeah, he’s just running a little late—Oh, there he is.” He says, looking away across the crowded room to where Jisoo has just passed his coat over to the coat-checker.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” Jisoo says as he arrives at their table. “My last appointment ran over schedule and traffic was a—well, you know how it is.”

“Hmm, yes.” Jeonghan says disdainfully, peering at Jisoo over the top of his menu. “Well—the rest of us managed to arrive in time, but _regardless_ , nice of you to join us.”

“Jeonghan,” Jisoo greets cordially, as he takes his seat next to his. “Thank you for _asking_ Seungcheol to invite me. Of course, it would have been more appropriate for you to ask me yourself, but _regardless_ , nice of you to think of me.”

Jeonghan offers Jisoo what he must have thought was a smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. “Oh I assure you, I wasn’t thinking of you at all. I only extended the invitation to you because Seungcheol insisted.”

Seungcheol makes a face at the absolute bullshit of that. “I don’t really remember insisting on-“

“What a relief!” Jisoo interjects, clapping his hands together. “I was beginning to doubt my perception of you, but I’m glad to know you’re still the sad, little man I know.”

Jeonghan’s jaw drops in a silent _‘how dare you’._

Jihoon lifts his menu to shield his face from the bickering duo, and whispers, “Cheol—I’m scared.”

“It’s okay Cupcake. I’ll protect you. Remember, we have _guns_.” Seungcheol murmurs quietly, grinning as Jihoon grins back at him.

But it’s not funny. It’s really not. Not when Jeonghan and Jisoo look like they’re about to weaponize the cutlery.

Thankfully, any attempt is cut short when the waiter passes by, setting down their drinks with a smile. “Are we ready to order?”

“Just a few more minutes please.” Seungcheol says. He takes a sip of his drink. It’s cold and bracing, it helps a little.

They sit there for a few minutes in silence, perusing the menu. Around them, people laugh and chatter.

Eventually, Jeonghan sighs and sets down his menu, pointedly looking Jisoo up and down. “You’re looking very dashing this evening. Not that I would have expected any less from a refined man as yourself.”

Jisoo glances at him sideways, his eyes instantly suspicious.

“Why, uhm—thank you.” He says, eyes rounding in surprise. Then he very obviously leaves it at that.

When it becomes apparent he won’t be returning the compliment, Jeonghan huffs loudly.

“This is usually the part where you would say something complimentary _back_.”

Jisoo waves a vague hand. “Oh, but telling outrageous lies is more _your_ forte.” He drawls.

Jeonghan’s eyes darken murderously. “Now listen here—that was a genuine compliment you jack-ass, and I expect one back!”

Jihoon raises his menu again and looks at Seungcheol as if to say, _‘Quick! Do something to ease the tension.’_

Seungcheol winks at him in reassurance, then clears his throat pointedly. “The Vichyssoise chilled soup sounds good. Jeonghan’s going to need something cold to soothe that huge burn he just got.”

Which is clearly the wrong thing to say because Jisoo barks out a laugh, Jeonghan glares at him and Jihoon promptly elbows him in the side.

“Ah—Jihoon.” Seungcheol complains, rubbing his side. “Seriously man, your elbows are small and pointy.”

“You think you’d be used to that by now.” Jisoo murmurs under his breath, a comment that thankfully goes unheard by the other two people at the table.

Seungcheol levels Jisoo a reproachful look, then reaches for his drink. “Alright—we’re all adults here. Whatever history you guys have, “He says, gesturing between Jisoo and Jeonghan, “Can be shelved for the time being. We’re here to celebrate, okay. As _friends_.”

Everyone nods approvingly and lift their glasses.

“To friendship.” Jisoo says, “Old and new.”

They drink to friendship, then to luck. Then to success in future cases and chilled Vichyssoise soup.

Then things start to get a little wobbly. “To American top forties!” Jeonghan says, raising his glass. By the time they’re drinking to strawberry jam and high thread-count sheets, the tension has dissipated.

“Good evening gentlemen,” The waiter says as he approaches their table. “What do we have here? A double date?” He adds, appraising the four of them.

“No!” Jeonghan and Jisoo answer in unison, and the tension is right back where it started.

Seungcheol makes a face and finishes his drink. “Uh—apparently not.” He knocks his knee against Jihoon’s and gives him a private smile before turning back to the waiter, "But, we _are_ ready to order.”

* * *

 

Several hours later, Seungcheol is warm inside and out, gorged on good food and better company and somewhere along the way, his hand has made its way to a resting spot on Jihoon’s knee under the table.

It’s easy, instinctive, to touch his partner like this, to be pressed close to him. Jihoon doesn’t stop him, doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seems amused. Even when Seungcheol slides his hand up to Jihoon’s thigh, begins to knead gently, Jihoon doesn’t flinch.

He isn't the only one getting overly familiar, though; both Jisoo and Jeonghan are clearly letting bygones be bygones tonight, and have spent most of the evening exchanging long, heated looks with each other.

A quick glance to the right at his partner reveals Jihoon is a little surprised and more than a bit disturbed by Jeonghan and Jisoo’s blatant flirting; a sharp disparity with their icy behaviour towards each other not more than a few hours ago.   

It’s mildly nauseating to watch if he’s being honest. Because Jisoo’s like a much-loved younger brother and Jeonghan’s like Valak-The Defiler, and the thought of Jeonghan offering Jisoo a lift home later, then being invited in for ‘coffee’ which inevitably escalates to them doing the horizontal monster mash is a _tad_ disconcerting.

Oh, and now Jeonghan’s cracking a joke and Jisoo’s batting him on the arm playfully, and they might as well just blow each other under the dining table while they’re at it.  

“Get a room.” Seungcheol drawls, when Jisoo whispers something into Jeonghan’s ear across the table that is no doubt disgusting.

Jisoo stops whispering to swing his head towards him.

“That’s rich coming from _you_.” Jisoo huffs. Then—one corner of his mouth curls upwards. “Tell me Seungcheol—where’s _your_ hand resting under the table? Hmm?”

Jeonghan turns and looks at him with a mixture of surprise and challenge on his face, and Seungcheol suddenly feels as if a spotlight has been turned on him.

He tenses—feels Jihoon’s leg tense under his hand too.

He glances down at where his thumb is rubbing little circles against Jihoon’s thigh and smirks.

“Touché.”

A lengthy silence stretches between them, verging on awkward. Before Seungcheol can find some innocuous way to change the subject, Jihoon pushes his chair back from the table.

“I’m need to go to the restroom.” He says tightly, eyes trained on the edge of the table.

Seungcheol takes the opportunity to break contact, removing his hand to raise a mostly empty glass to his lips to catch the last few drops.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Jihoon moves between the tables towards the restroom and out of sight, then glares at Jisoo as he sets the glass down.

“Thanks asshole. You made it awkward.”

Jisoo makes the face he does when he is trying not to laugh. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have said it the minute it slipped out of my mouth.”

Seungcheol looks of to the side, shaking his head helplessly.

It's hard to be mad at Jisoo under the circumstances, as much as Seungcheol is entertaining a fantasy of shooting him in the head and disposing of the body on the beach. Seungcheol knows Jisoo is actually rooting for him and Jihoon to make this crazy relationship work, which Seungcheol appreciates because God knows not everyone feels that way.

“Erm—am I missing something?” Jeonghan asks, glancing between the two of them curiously. “I get the impression I just missed something important.”

Seungcheol sucks his lower lip, head shaking. “It’s nothing.”

Jisoo raises his glass but doesn’t drink—instead, he scents his wine, and smiles at Seungcheol over the rim of the glass.

“I may have just cock-clocked Seungcheol here.” He answers anyway.  

Seungcheol makes a concerted effort not to kick him under the table.

Maybe he _will_ shoot him and bury him on the beach after all.

Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, politely inquiring, but his eyes are dancing when he looks at Jisoo. “Oh? From _whom_?”

Jisoo smirks and jerks his head in the direction of Jihoon’s empty seat.

Jeonghan is seemingly startled by the idea— though for a completely different reason.  

“Hold on a second,” Jeonghan blurts out, and then he stops and takes a deep breath and holds his hand out as though he just needs everyone to shut up so he can get a grip on this. “You mean to tell me you guys _haven’t_ fucked yet?”

“Er—no.” Seungcheol manages, stunned. “We haven’t.”

“You thought they did?” Jisoo asks, bemused.

Jeonghan spreads his hands and shrugs, “Of course. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol blinks at him in surprise and gets a full set of rolling eyes in return.

“Oh, please.” Jeonghan snorts. “The two of you are about as subtle as a cavalry charge. Or a fucking tank. You look at each other and the whole damn world can see how you feel. Everyone I know who knows you both is of the opinion that you’re sleeping together, or that your seconds away from it at least.”

“Well—they technically are sleeping together.” Jisoo drawls, swirling the wine in his glass.

Seungcheol, who notes the somewhat puzzled looks from Jeonghan supplies: “We share a bed—some nights.” 

 _“Every night.”_ Jisoo corrects immediately, ignoring Seungcheol’s pointed look of _‘what the fuck dude’_ “Jihoon hasn’t slept in his own apartment in months. _Months_. They’re practically living together.”

“It’s convenient for both of us because my place is closer to work.” Seungcheol defends.

“Perhaps it _is_ convenient.” Jisoo says loftily. “But that doesn’t explain why they _spoon_ and then just don’t mention it the next morning.”

At Jeonghan’s amused look Seungcheol feels compelled to point out, “Friendly spooning, okay. Jihoon is a very spoon-able person. Haven’t you seen him? He’s the perfect size for a little spoon.”

“ _And_ they admitted that they love each other.” Jisoo adds pointedly. He looks positively proud of himself at that, and Seungcheol just sighs and rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand.  

“Yeah, we did, but it was more of a platonic, best friend kind of love.” he says, and he mostly sounds as though he truly believes that. He mostly believes it.

Jisoo shakes his head in disbelief. “Platonic— _sure_. So platonic he dreams about you and you have to jerk off in the shower every morning to stop your balls from exploding.”

“Hey!” Seungcheol glares at Jisoo with a look that makes clear any more unnecessary sharing and he’s heading out the nearest hardware store and buying a shovel.

“Don’t give me that look Cheollie—we both know a beach is a terrible place to bury a body.” Jisoo smirks back mischievously, reading Seungcheol’s mind and every murderous thought in it apparently. He leans forward over the table and lowers his tone confidentially, “Besides, you know I’m right. The only thing more frustrating than being in a long-term relationship with blue balls, is _witnessing_ it. You guys are giving me blue balls just watching you dance around each other. When are you gonna fuck?”

Jeonghan hums something agreeable. “He’s right. And if you’re not careful, you could end up friend-zoning yourself.”

Seungcheol cringes at the thought. He immediately points a finger at Jisoo as he opens his mouth to say something else.

“Cram it Jisoo—you’ve said enough. I shared that information with you because I wanted your advice, not because I wanted you to blabber it all to the first person who would listen. What ever happened to patient confidentiality?”

Jisoo looks at him fondly. “You’re not my patient. You’re my friend. And as your friend I can’t just sit back and wait ten million years for something to happen between you guys. You want my advice, here it is—get your finger out and _do something.”_

“Or _someone_.” Jeonghan pipes in. _He_ looks sympathetic, at least. “Preferably Jihoon.”

Seungcheol leans forward and puts his face in his hands. “I’m trying, alright. But I have to take things slow. Jihoon’s—”

“ _Repressed_?” Jisoo interjects.

Seungcheol checks to see if he’s joking—he isn’t. “No. He’s—”

“ _Small_?” Jeonghan ventures next.

Seungcheol squints at him. Those two are beginning to sound disturbingly alike.

“What’s _that_ got to do with anything?”

Jeonghan makes a crude gesture with a clenched fist and two fingers that makes Seungcheol’s eyes widen and his face burn red.

He refuses to dignify that, or Jisoo's wink, or Jeonghan’s mouthing the word  _tight_  at Jisoo. 

“No,” Seungcheol says after a moment’s consideration. After an additional moment’s further consideration, he amends that to, “Maybe,” and then, finally, to, “I don’t know. I know he hasn’t been with anyone in a while, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been—oh god!"

Laughing in frustration and a mix of other feelings he doesn’t care to untangle, Seungcheol scrubs at his face with one hand. “I don’t want to talk about this right now, okay. I just know that pushing Jihoon further than he’s ready to go might fuck up things between us, and I refuse to let that happen. He’s the most important person in the world to me right now. If something’s going to happen between us—I can wait.”

The look Jisoo gives him is not what he expected; it’s soft, almost worried.

“That’s very noble of you Seungcheol.” Jisoo says after a while, patting him on the hand.

“Yeah,” Jeonghan says, looking at him thoughtfully. “It’s more patience than I would have expected from you if I’m being honest.”

Seungcheol gives an infinitesimal shrug. He opens his mouth to answer— _‘Some things are worth waiting for’_ , when Jisoo holds up a hand to silence him.

“He’s coming back. Let’s talk about something else.”

* * *

 

In most cases, Seungcheol finds watching someone else read about as interesting as watching paint dry. Adding Jihoon into the equation—sleeves rolled to just above the elbows, light cresting the bend of his wrist when he twirls a pen between his fingers, the graceful movement of his throat when he occasionally sips at the coffee left over from a late dinner of takeout—kills logic in all its forms.

Logic, Seungcheol is positive, has nothing to do with how absorbing it is just to covertly stare at Jihoon wetting a fingertip with his precise pink tongue and flipping page after page. He doesn’t always understand how Jihoon can make the most mundane tasks seem fascinating. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be used to it.

It’s just the two of them left in the bullpen tonight, since most of the officers not on duty are out celebrating Junhui’s fifth year on the force and Captain Namjoon is doing whatever the hell someone like Captain Namjoon does when he isn’t working.

Jihoon, for the better portion of an hour, has been frowning over a sheaf of files and Seungcheol has been pretending to do the same but really stealing too many glances at Jihoon to actually be productive.

When he eventually admits to himself that he isn’t likely to gain anything else tonight other than a new appreciation for Jihoon’s dual powers of concentration and obliviousness, Seungcheol stands, stretches, and starts packing up. Jihoon works right on, not seeming to notice anything even when Seungcheol comes over to clear away the remnants of takeaway boxes.

He’s picking up his jacket and wondering whether it’s worth shattering Jihoon’s focus to speak to him when, out of nowhere, Jihoon twists to look at him. “You going?”

“Not home—not yet. Just to the bar across the road.” Seungcheol says, gut clenching at the way Jihoon’s face falls. “I know you don’t particularly like Junhui—but he’s been on the force for five years today, and he’s invited us all out for drinks to celebrate….” He trails off as he studies his partner.

He can see the minute hesitation in Jihoon’s eyes is pretty sure he knows how this conversation will end. Of course, that doesn’t mean he wants to fast-forward straight to _‘No, thanks’_.

“You should come.”

Jihoon draws a breath as if to say something, then deflates.

“You know I don’t do the whole after works drink tradition, Cheol, why do you even try?”

“I just thought,” Seungcheol says, “that given the lull in our case load and how much you enjoyed that night out with Jisoo and Jeonghan—you might be in a...susceptible frame of mind.” He smiles, to make his meaning even more clear.

Jihoon looks over the rims of his reading glasses. He looks tired and irritated and very un-susceptible. “That was different. It was just—there were less people. I’m not great with crowds, and besides, I’m sure Junhui doesn’t want me there.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that Seungcheol can’t tell if it’s a joke or an actual opinion.

“But I do.”

Jihoon flushes a pretty pink, and the sight is so familiar and intimate that Seungcheol feels a dangerous rush of affection.

“I’d rather--” Jihoon turns away, sharp-profiled and pale in the halo of light cast by his desk lamp. “I’ve got a lot of reports to type up, Cheol. You go—have fun.”

Seungcheol sighs. “Alright. Suit yourself.” He slings his jacket over his shoulder then pauses to poke Jihoon in the cheek, right where a dimple would be if he deigned to smile. “ _Party pooper.”_

Jihoon’s face morphs into a sullen scowl.

“I’m _not_ a party pooper.” he says, suddenly defensive to an endearing degree.

“Aww.” Seungcheol coos, ruffling Jihoon’s hair as he passes behind his chair. “Yes, you are. You’re the biggest party pooper I know. The prettiest antisocial butterfly.”

* * *

 

By nine O’clock, Jihoon’s too bleary eyes and frustrated to really focus on work anymore.

It’s silly, he thinks, that he feels somewhat disappointed that Seungcheol’s already committed to going out for drinks tonight with the other guys. Up until Seungcheol stood up and grabbed his jacket, Jihoon was very much looking forward to doing something after work _together_. But given the option of socialising with a big group of his drunk work colleagues or typing up case reports, he’s chosen the less anxiety inducing option.

He’s terrible at small talk, bar chatter and humorous anecdotes—always has been. Seungcheol’s managed to coax him out of his shell quite a bit, and there _had_ been a brief moment when he’d almost considered accepting Seungcheol’s offer, but ultimately, he’s refused.

He had no good, objective reason to refuse, just the inexplicable gut certainty that if he said yes, he was going to disappoint and be disappointed.

It’s not that he’s antisocial, no. Far from it. It’s just that he would much rather have the comfort of familiar company.

Jihoon’s always seen himself as inwardly awkward – that is, he does fairly well in most social situations, but he often feels as though he is in reality some sort of alien being who’s only managing to fool everyone somehow. Seungcheol assures him that many people feel that way, but there’s a difference between knowing and believing and a difference between believing and internalizing.

He closes his eyes momentarily, and presses the heel of one hand to his forehead. When he opens them, Captain Namjoon is standing in front of his desk watching him, his hands in his pockets.

“Hello there.”

Jihoon does not jump; that’s not the kind of thing he does, ever.

He might make a tiny sound of alarm that sounds like a kittens mewl, but he doesn’t jump.

“Detective Lee.” Captain Namjoon smiles, “Burning the midnight oil again I see.”

“No. Uh—I mean yes.” Jihoon finally manages eye contact. “Just finishing up a few case reports captain.”

Namjoon gives him a considering look, then checks his watch and holds his wrist up. “Off the clock?”

“Uhm—yes.”

Namjoon seems to give it some thought.  “On a Friday night?”

“Yes.”

Namjoon stands there studying him, as if Jihoon’s failed to say something important. “And where’s your partner? Strange to see you two not joined at the hip.”

“Ah—he’s having drinks with some of the guys. Junhui’s celebrating….” Jihoon closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, then shrugs, “…. _something_.”

The Captain acknowledges that with a nod. “And why aren’t you with him?”

Jihoon takes a deep breath. “Because I’m—” a party pooper, _apparently_. “Finishing my case reports.”

“Off the clock?” Namjoon repeats.

“Yeah.”

“On a Friday night?” He repeats, again.

Jihoon wonders vaguely if he might be hallucinating this conversation.

“Are we having Deja-vu? Or is that just me?” When Namjoon raises an eyebrow at him, he shakes his head. “Sorry. I just don’t know where you’re going with this.”

Namjoon exhales for a long moment, then reaches over and hits the power button on his computer monitor. The screen turns black.

“Get out of here, Jihoon.”

Jihoon stares bewilderedly at the blank screen. Did he even click save? “But the case reports!”

“Can wait till Monday.” The captain’s voice is low, and not unfriendly. “Go—stop working. Go be a twenty-one-year-old.”

“But I’m twenty-five!” Jihoon says, waving his hands to illustrate the sheer absurdity of this conversation.  

Captain Namjoon practically lifts him out of the chair by his arms.

If he notices Jihoon’s half-hearted indignation, he gives no indication.

“What I meant was—go be a twenty-one-year-old _again_. Seungcheol’s out there, enjoying his life. You should be too. Don’t waste away in here when you don’t have to. The bar they’re celebrating at is just down the road, you can still catch up with them, although I doubt anyone could match Seungcheol drink for drink.”

“I don’t want to go drinking. I want to finish my case reports.” Jihoon grumbles, catching his jacket when the Captain throws it at him.

“Now, now.” The Captain tuts. “No sulking or I’ll send you to your room, uh—I mean— _suspend_ you.”

Jihoon pulls his jacket on with more force than necessary.

He feels like a child being forced out of the house by his parents, so he can run and play and ride a bike and all the other things normal kids do to make _friends_.

Captain Namjoon even walks/shoves him towards the elevator and calls it for him, like he suspects Jihoon might try and sneak back in when he’s not looking.

When the elevator doors wish open, Jihoon trudges inside, moping. “This isn’t fair. They don’t want me there. Seungcheol called me a party pooper.”

Namjoon reaches in to press the button for the ground floor, giving him a smile he probably thinks is more supportive than _smug_.

“Well—go prove him wrong.”

* * *

 

Jihoon slips through the front door around nine-thirty, palms damp and feeling stupidly anxious. There’s a mass of people inside, a heady mix of music and laughter and useless attempts at conversation—coming from every angle.

Jihoon quickly spots a few familiar faces from the precinct and jerks his head in greeting. He doesn’t stop to chat though: Seungcheol invited him, and Jihoon is damn well going to prove that he showed up, that he is _not_ a party pooper.

Then some drunk idiot practically knocks him over and another nearly tips his drink all over him, and he regrets leaving the safety of the dark, empty streets.

God—he _hates_ this atmosphere.

Why is he here again?

Oh, yeah—not a party pooper.

He stands near the door, debates with himself for a few seconds. He can leave, he can just head home and get an early night. He doesn’t have to--

“…Jihoon’s here,” someone slurs, and Jihoon turns instinctively, even though he doesn’t recognize the voice, and suddenly it becomes clear that the drunk individual’s attempts at hailing are not, in fact, directed toward him… but rather toward the familiar dark head of hair in the centre of a crowd.

“Cupcake?” Seungcheol calls over the heads of about half a dozen people, through which he immediately and inexplicably begins to push.

When Seungcheol bursts through the small cluster, Jihoon identifies something genuinely pleased in his partner’s eye. He feels an upswell of intense, confused emotion.

Strange, to find himself surprised Seungcheol is happy to see him here. The guy’s made no secret of wanting him here. Yet now, standing here in the bar, is the first time Jihoon allows himself to believe it. To recognize the glint of something that can only be affection in Seungcheol's eyes and accept it as genuine.

It is distinctly possible he's too stubborn for his own good.

“Hey.” Jihoon says, raising a hand in greeting awkwardly.

Seungcheol smiles, a genuine warm expression. “You came. You actually came.”

“Yeah, I feel bad, you know, missing out on these things.”

Seungcheol laughs and slings an arm around Jihoon’s shoulders. He smells vaguely of whisky. “You always miss out though—what changed your mind this time?”

“Well—,” Jihoon sighs, “Captain Namjoon kicked me out of the station, and it’s Junhui’s third year on the force, so I should _probably_ be here to celebrate it. It’s a momentous occasion and all.”

“It’s uh—actually Junhui’s _fifth_ year.” Seungcheol corrects.

Jihoon rolls his eyes, aware that he can't stop his mouth from pouting. “Whatever. You asked me to come, didn’t you?”

Seungcheol leans in, marshalling every ounce of charm he possesses. 

“Really," He rumbles, hand slipping off Jihoon’s shoulder to curl around Jihoon’s waist instead. Lightly cupping the groove of Jihoon's hip with his thumbs, Seungcheol leans in close enough for Jihoon to smell his cologne, and god, he smells so damn good, if Jihoon just turned his head he could bury his nose behind Seungcheol’s ear and just breathe him in.

Seungcheol's voice, when he speaks, is so low it hits Jihoon like a shot of adrenaline.  “Are you saying I made you come?”

Jihoon can feel himself in danger of blushing as he processes Seungcheol’s meaning. A sense memory from his dream rushes up at him; the sweep of Seungcheol’s hair against his cheek, the heat of Seungcheol’s hands on his body.

He clears his throat, feeling disturbingly warm beneath the collar. “Well I certainly didn’t come for jerk ass Junhui.”

Seungcheol throws back his head and laughs.

“C’mon—let’s get you a drink.” He says, tugging Jihoon through the crowds, full mouth pulled into a playful smile.

* * *

 

They grab a little corner booth, separated from everything else, existing in a place meant for just the two of them.

Jihoon has no intention of drinking tonight, but somehow finds himself staring at an empty pint glass and gladly accepting another, telling himself he’ll have one more and that will be it.

Seungcheol, Jihoon notices, has drank twice as many pints as him, but looks no drunker than when Jihoon arrived.

“Invisibility.”

“Invisibility?”

“Yeah, you know—the power to be invisible whenever I want.” Jihoon says loftily, and takes the first gulp of his fresh pint. It’s mostly foam and a little beer, but it hits the spot all the same. He’s lost count of how many it’s been, trading rounds between them all night, but the world feels warmer, a little less sharp.

“I know what it _is_ Jihoon, I’m just curious as to why you’d pick _that_ of all things? Would you use it to sneak into the men shower room and watch men shower or something?”

Jihoon stares at him blankly. “Why is that automatically the first thing you’d think I’d use my special powers for?”

“What else is there to do?” Seungcheol says, in a completely rational tone, “Unless you plan on using it to sneak into the bank and steal money or something—wait—would your clothes become invisible too? Or would you have to take them off and walk around naked to maintain your cover?”

“Hmm.” Jihoon munches a handful of over-salted almonds, letting Seungcheol pick the rest of the cashews out of the bowl between them, “I don’t think the super power would transfer to my clothes, so yeah, I guess I’d be naked.”

Seungcheol hums in wordless approval until Jihoon smacks him on the arm. “I’d be invisible you dolt. It’s not like you could _see_ anything.”

“Still though—the very idea of _you_ waltzing around in the _nude_ —" Seungcheol trails off, allowing just a trace of suggestion to creep in.

Jihoon rolls his eyes long sufferingly. “What would _you_ pick then?”

“The power to see invisible people, _obviously_.”

Jihoon chucks one of his almonds in Seungcheol’s direction just for the hell of it. “Be serious.”

“The power to read people’s minds.” Seungcheol says, tapping a finger against his head. “Then I’d know if a suspect was lying to me or not. Would certainly make the day job easier.”

Jihoon pretends to ponder this notion. “Oh, but would you want that—the brutal honesty of knowing what people _actually_ think about you?” He fakes a grimace. “Promise me you won’t use your special power on me—I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Hey—” Seungcheol snorts into his glass. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Shame you can’t read my mind and find out.” Jihoon replies, all innocence.

Seungcheol sets his glass down with a thud.

“I’m a _cop_. I have cop’s _intuition_.” He leans his elbows on the table and narrows his eyes—not inquisitive, but challenging—and continues, “I don’t need mind reading powers to know what you’re thinking—I just need to look into your _eyes_.”

Jihoon scoffs, “Is that so? Alright then—have at it.” He straightens up so they’re almost eye to eye, expression full of tolerant good humour. “Go on—what am I thinking of now?”

Seungcheol just looks at him, eyes hooded and probing, almost grey in the pub's low light, and Jihoon finds himself unable to look away.

There are questions in those eyes, ones Jihoon can't answer, even if he wants to. It makes Jihoon more uncomfortable than he'd expected, as if Seungcheol can somehow see his internal conflict.

He stays absolutely still, tries to look inscrutable as he watches the slow tilt of Seungcheol’s head, the way his tongue darts out carefully and licks at his bottom lip. They're both leaning in now, so near it’s dangerously intimate. Jihoon feels a familiar shiver down his spine, wets his own lips nervously and hopes to God he isn’t giving anything incriminating away.

Why did the man have to be so god-damned attractive?

After a long moment, Jihoon becomes abruptly aware that they must look completely stupid the way they’re just staring at each other. Seungcheol’s inches away, not touching him anywhere, but Jihoon can feel his breath lifting the curl against his forehead. It tickles.

How many times have they been just like this?

So close, but never any closer.

Jihoon clears his throat to break the spell. “Well?”

Seungcheol leans back, and reaches for his pint, he looks—he looks  _playful_.

“ _Jihoonie_ —" He drawls, voice sliding into something sinful and warm. He raises the glass and smiles through it, “You kinky little minx. I never knew you felt that way.”

As Seungcheol drinks, Jihoon has to mentally shake himself.

He tries to come up with something intelligent to say, but when he draws a breath it hitches audibly, and he gives a little sharp, self-deprecating little laugh that quickly trails off into nothing at all.

He can’t decide how much of Seungcheol’s teasing is the alcohol, the truth, or just Seungcheol being _Seungcheol_.

Has he given himself away somehow?

Does Seungcheol _know_ how he feels?

Jihoon quickly cancels out that possibility.

He’s just tired.

This is Seungcheol, being Seungcheol, saying Seungcheol things. There’s no reason to invest it with any extra meaning.

“Fuck off.” He laughs instead, cheeks red. “I was thinking about a delicious footlong subway actually. I’m hungry.” He deflects, but as usual Seungcheol’s smirk just becomes that much more insufferable.

He’s practically _leering_ at Jihoon across the table, “ _Sure_ you were. You were thinking about _my_ footlong subway.”  

If Jihoon had have been drinking his beer, he would probably be wearing it.

“Dude—your ego is ridiculous.” Jihoon shakes his head, but can't help the smirk that creeps onto his face.

Seungcheol is Seungcheol. Always and forever. His sense of humour borders on inappropriate at the best of times and happily trespasses on it the rest. When you work with death every day, you have to find humour somewhere.

Someone cranks the music even higher, some tinny Western pop song. People start to dance. 

For a lazy stretch of time they sit in silence, nursing their drinks and watching as Junhui tries to dance on the bar top and promptly falls off.

Eventually Jihoon can’t help but speak up, because some things _need_ to be verified.

“There is no way you are a foot-long.” Jihoon says speculatively, feeling that he’s edging onto new, untested ground. “I mean I got a brief look once, and yeah, you’re impressive, but a footlong? That’s anatomically impossible.”

Seungcheol laughs at that, a long, low chuckle. He sets his glass down and drums his fingers lightly against the side, sucks at his lip the way Jihoon caught him doing so many times when he thought he was unwatched. Then, _distressingly_ , his hands drop down and start unbuckling his belt.

Jihoon’s eyes go _wide_.

“Woah, woah—” He chokes, scrambling to stop Seungcheol. He leans in close enough to whisper, although he doesn’t really have to. No one is paying attention to them. “What are you going to do? Whip it out and measure it?”

Seungcheol stops fiddling with his belt buckle, his smirking mouth tugs to the side, “You’re doubting me, Jihoonie. I got prove myself. And you’re an evidence guy after all—I know how much you like to _visualize_ things in 3D.”

Jihoon chokes on his laughter. “I believe you, okay. No need to flash me in the middle of the bar.”

A quick flash of teeth, and then Seungcheol’s hand is warm and heavy on Jihoon's thigh, his breath close against the sensitive curve of Jihoon's ear. “Guess I’ll show you _later_.”

The touch is enough to make Jihoon's breath stutter.

He can’t believe he forgot what a huge flirt Seungcheol used to be. Perhaps alcohol makes him even  bolder?

Either way, the self-satisfied twist of his lips is making Jihoon’s blood run hot.

It's been so long, and Seungcheol’s hand is lightly massaging his thigh. All Jihoon wants to do is—

“Dammit.” Seungcheol complains suddenly, lifting his hand to dig in his pocket for something.

A second later he's got his cell phone in his hand, peering down at the number flashing on the screen for a moment, before pocketing it again without answering.

“Your dad again?” Jihoon inquires, as casually as he can manage.

“Yeah.” Seungcheol mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Against his better judgment, Jihoon asks, “Why are you so sure it’s going to be an unpleasant conversation? Maybe he just wants to say hi?”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a resigned slump to his shoulders. “Because I _know_ my dad, nothing I do is right. If I don’t take his advice now, at least I won’t have to listen to _‘I warned you, but you didn’t listen’_ when I do the opposite of what he wants.”

Jihoon leans forward with interest. “What’s he looking to advice you about anyway?”

“It’s nothing important.” Seungcheol dismisses casually. He’s betrayed only by his restless hands: tapping an arrhythmic beat on the table, fiddling with his glass, toying with the coaster. They’re good hands, strong, capable. With thick fingers that could easily stretch Jihoon’s—

_Oh, fuck._

Jihoon drinks the thought away.

“ _Okay_ —” He intones, setting his glass down empty. “That’s my limit. No more beers for me.”

“Understood.” Seungcheol nods.

He finishes his own pint in three gulps, before sliding out of the booth and heading for the bar.

Jihoon watches him go, a little confused until he sees Seungcheol return, carrying a couple of glasses and a bottle. Tequila, Jihoon sees with wry amusement.

He averts his eyes until Seungcheol's made it all the way back to their table, and when he looks up again, he scoffs.

“Are we suddenly 21 again? Tequila shots, _really_?”

Seungcheol shrugs. “You said no more beer. This—” He cracks the seal on the bottle, “Is not beer.”

“I really shouldn’t—” Jihoon begins to protest, because he promised he wouldn’t let his guard down. But he’s already drunk; on satisfaction and beer and the way Seungcheol’s hand rested on his thigh moments before.

“Come on, Cupcake. Live a little.”  Seungcheol grins, pouring them each a generous amount.

Jihoon sighs and grabs a shot, a lime, and the salt shaker. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, then he licks his hand and adds the salt before sliding the shaker across the table to Seungcheol.

If he watches Seungcheol’s tongue dart out to lick his own hand, then no one need know.

When he’s done with the salt, Seungcheol raises his drink. “Cheers Cupcake.”

Jihoon raises his own, knowing it’s a bad idea, that he'll regret it.  “Cheers.”

Lick. Shot. Lime.

* * *

 

“Seungcheol—is it just me—or has that guy in the red shirt been staring at me all night?” Jihoon says, gesturing a lazy hand across the booth.

Seungcheol follows his gaze to where a red fire extinguisher sits, propped up against the wall, and almost strains something trying not to laugh.

“That’s a fire extinguisher Jihoonie.” Seungcheol says, patting him on his sleek, shiny head.

Jihoon can't hold his alcohol at all, to the surprise of _no one._

He’s still in that sociable, smiley stage of drunkenness; cheeks warm, hair an excitable sort of mess, that his ears are attempting to play hide and seek in. He’s explaining, in an overly detailed and excitable way, about the first time he got drunk. Only he’s getting the order mixed up, and then pauses to hiccup.

It's the most adorable thing Seungcheol has ever heard. 

“Oh no.” Jihoon hiccups again. “I think I might be drunk.” He murmurs, a little horror seeping into his voice.

“Yeah, I think you might. And you’ve only _had_ two beer and a few shots.” Seungcheol says pointedly, still very sober.

Jihoon wrinkles his nose and waves his hand toward Seungcheol’s face in what Seungcheol assumes is an attempt to poke him. “This is unacceptable, Seungcheol. You promised you wouldn’t let me get drunk.”

“You’re right—I did. But how was I to know you would be _this_ much of a lightweight?”

Jihoon grumbles something under his breath then rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder, one lovely hand cuffed tightly round Seungcheol’s bicep as though to keep track of him. His eyelids look heavy now, like he's tired, and Seungcheol can't help but imagine at least ten different sexual scenarios to tire Jihoon out like that.

Unfortunately, each of these scenarios keep on slipping back to the more familiar image of Jihoon staying a late night in the station, double checking their day's work.

“Do you think they serve pancakes here?” Jihoon speaks up suddenly.

“I don’t think so, love,” Seungcheol answers, and when Jihoon’s face falls he actually feels  _guilty_. Like it’s somehow his fault that this dive bar in Seoul doesn’t serve all-night brunch. “They have peanuts and salted pretzels at most.”

Jihoon pouts like a five year old. “But I want pancakes.”

Smashed and sleepy and still demanding impossible things. Seungcheol should have expected nothing less.

“Okay. How about tomorrow—” Seungcheol begins placatingly, only to be interrupted by Mingyu collapsing into their booth. Jun appears through the crowd, Minghao in tow. They’re both sweaty and dishevelled.

“This place is shutting soon, so we’re bar hopping. You guys coming?” Mingyu shouts over the music.

Jihoon’s eyes flash with interest at that. “Hell yeah!”

Suddenly reinvigorated, Jihoon tries to scamper away, but Seungcheol grabs him by the back of his shirt and hauls him onto his lap.

“ _No_. No, we’re not.”

He thinks he may love Jihoon's giggly and mischievous stage of drunkenness. But his 'passed-out drunk’, stage of drunkenness will probably soon follow, which will be significantly less fun. So Seungcheol's withholding, like the responsible adult.

“ _Why_? I wanna go bar hopping? Why can’t we bar hop Cheollie?” Jihoon whines at him, flip flopping like a fish in his arms while Mingyu, Jun and Minghao laugh outrageously.

Seungcheol decides that deceit would be acceptable in this situation.

“If you come home with me now Jihoonie, I can make you _pancakes_.” Seungcheol coos in Jihoon’s ear, attempting to soothe him.

It works surprisingly well; Jihoon smiles, then suddenly goes limp, and Seungcheol scrambles to reorient his grip so that Jihoon’s body doesn’t flop to the ground.

He nods apologetically at Mingyu and the others, and manoeuvres Jihoon out of the booth and towards the bar to settle their tab.

"Let’s get you home, yeah?"

* * *

 

“Here we are,” Seungcheol says, rousing Jihoon where he’s fallen asleep against his shoulder. 

“Where are we? Are we going out?” asks Jihoon brightly.

“No. We’ve already _been_ out. We’re at home now.” Seungcheol says, tugging him gently out of the back of the cab. 

He guides Jihoon towards his front door steps, taking him by the elbow when he threatens to wobble. He’s getting quite used to that, to the warm sharp point of Jihoon’s arm poking into the hollow of his hand, to the way Jihoon moves at his guidance.

It’s only when they’re at the front door does Jihoon show the first signs of resistance, batting ineffectually at Seungcheol’s hands as he nudges him around so he can hunt for his key. 

“Stop hanmandling me. I can stand on my own.” 

“I am neither hanmandling you _nor_ manhandling you.” Seungcheol says, fumbling with the key. It clatters against the sidewalk twice before he manages to get it into the lock, right way up.

By the time they actually get inside of Seungcheol's flat, Jihoon looks as if he's ready to do violence to someone, Seungcheol being the obvious choice.

“Wait,” Jihoon says, spinning around in panic as Seungcheol locks the door.

“What?” Seungcheol reaches instinctively for his gun, readying himself.

“Where are the pancakes?”

Seungcheol removes his hand from his weapon and lets his heartbeat return to a normal pattern.

“Jihoon, I lied about the pancakes.” He says matter-of-factly.

Jihoon doesn’t seem to hear this at first—he keeps casing the room, searching for pancakes. Seungcheol waits. After a couple of seconds—Jihoon really is fairly drunk, Seungcheol reminds himself—the penny drops. Jihoon’s head snaps back around, and he gives Seungcheol an incredulous, open-mouthed look.

“You  _lied_?”

The expression of outrage and betrayal that crosses Jihoon’s face would be terrifying in any other context, but in this instance Seungcheol finds himself stifling laughter.

“I’m afraid so. I can make you pancakes in the morning, but for now you have to get ready for bed while I get you some water.”

Seungcheol heads to the bathroom while Jihoon grumbles something about Seungcheol being an inveterate liar.

He can hear drawers opening and shutting while he fills a glass at the faucet. When he enters the bedroom, Jihoon is standing next to the bed, wearing Seungcheol’s Daegu PD t-shirt and looking vaguely forlorn.

“Here you go,” Seungcheol says, plunking the glass of water down on the nightstand, trying to ignore the way that Jihoon’s gaze is silently following him.

As he takes a step back, Jihoon makes a small noise of frustration.

“I want to punch you in the face all the time.”

Seungcheol sighs and kicks of his shoes. Apparently they’ve reached the Seungcheol-directed insults stage of drunkenness. “Look Jihoonie, I’ll make you pancakes tomor-”

“With my dick.” Jihoon adds.

Seungcheol’s head spins.  

“What?” he says with a laugh. He can’t have heard Jihoon right.

Seungcheol has a feeling that he makes a comical picture at the moment, frozen mid-step with his mouth open, his brain racing to make sense of what Jihoon’s said and making an inconvenient detour to  _imagine the scenario_.

Eventually he musters a reply. “Gotta admit, I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

Jihoon shakes his head violently. “You just, you just always walk around with that mouth. That  _fucking_  mouth.”

“I’m… sorry? I don’t have much of a choice?”

“And you  _never_  button your shirt up all the way. It’s like working with fucking… David Hasselhof or something.”

“I still can’t tell whether these are compliments or insults.” In desperation, Seungcheol adds, “How about you get into bed and try to go to sleep?”

“Why are you always  _teasing_  me,” Jihoon whines, climbing into bed. “It’s not nice. You know how I feel about you.”

The world momentarily stops spinning and transfers all of its momentum to Seungcheol’s gut. “I do?”

“I wouldn’t get drunk for anyone else,” Jihoon states matter-of-factly, as though that’s all the evidence Seungcheol could need.

And perhaps it is.

Seungcheol feels acutely guilty for getting Jihoon drunk; he thought he’d wind up with a blushed and beautiful man beckoning him toward a dark corner with a crooked finger, not a sad ragdoll of a man spilling his usually-carefully-locked-up guts.

He wishes he and Jihoon were on a more level playing field; he’s had about twice as much to drink, but he had about three stone on the man, not to mention a tolerance for liquor born of many long nights out that Jihoon can’t compete with.

So instead he’s slightly tipsy, and Jihoon’s rubbing his face against the sheets like a sleepy kitten.

“You got drunk for me?” Seungcheol asks quietly.

Jihoon shrugs and burrows his head further into his pillow. “I’unno. I was trying to be fun and normal. I don’t want to be boring for you, working all the time. I wanted you to tink I was fun.” 

A sudden tug of warmth slides through Seungcheol’s entire body.

"You do realise you probably couldn't be boring if you tried?"

Jihoon snorts, which sounds a lot like mockery, even though Seungcheol meant it as an honest compliment. “You called me a party pooper.”

Seungcheol sighs and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, one hand spread on the far side of Jihoon's hip, not touching, but his casual lean belies a tension in his shoulders.

It would take very little effort for him to stretch himself down beside Jihoon, or even over him. He considers how that might feel, and feels a shiver zip through his belly as stares down at his partner. 

“You _are_ fun. Even when you’re not drunk. _Especially_ when you’re not drunk. You don’t have to try and be normal for me Jihoon—I love that you’re weird and obsessive about stuff, and I don’t want that to change. I don’t really want to go drinking with the guys, but it’s kind of expected of us—rapport building shit, ya know. But honestly, I’d rather spend time with you than anyone else.”

“Really?” Jihoon turns his head, looking at Seungcheol in honest surprise. The hair on the left side of his head is all rucked up. “Even when I make you re-enact crime scenes?”

“Really.” Seungcheol nods. “Even then.”

Jihoon smiles his dimpled smile and pulls the covers up to his chin.

Seungcheol figures that’s the end of the conversation, so he leans over to turn off the lamp. Before he can reach it, the movement is interrupted by Jihoon's fingers gently curling on his shoulder, a gentle pressure to keep him in place.

They're closer now, Seungcheol hovering over Jihoon, his hands resting on the bed above his shoulders.

“Seungcheol.”

“Yeah?” Seungcheol prompts, not looking away. He sees Jihoon swallow, unconsciously licking his lips.

There’s silence, then, long fingers reach out to trace the edges of his face, a slow slide of warmth and barely-there pressure against his forehead, cheek and mouth - before they drop to his throat, curl down in a long tickling trail before drifting away once they reach his shirt collar.

“You’re so handsome, you know that?” Jihoon murmurs, sliding his fingers back over the rough stubble of Seungcheol’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly across his bottom lip.

The world hangs for a second.

Seungcheol laughs, feeling a weird flutter of nerves, Jihoon's name hovering on the tip of his tongue.

_Jihoon, what are you doing?_

_Jihoon, you’re drunk._

_Jihoon?_

Seungcheol doesn't say any of them, he keeps his mouth shut. Keeps it firmly shut and breathes, slow and steady while Jihoon spreads his fingers and drags his knuckles down the centre of his chest.

His breathing doesn’t sound as steady as Seungcheol's. There's a forced slowness to it, a careful, whispery drag of air that suggests—that suggests Jihoon is aroused.

Fuck.

The thought of stripping down and settling between Jihoon’s thighs, his partner’s lithe body just a little clumsy and desperate in his arms, his pretty mouth sluggish and hot has Seungcheol almost hard inside his jeans.

Jihoon eyes him as if he can read every thought flickering through his mind, all traces of apprehension smoothed down by the smoky look of lust and hunger darkening his face.

"I should probably—" Seungcheol starts. He has to get out of the room—hell, the  _city_ —before he does something rash.

"No, _stay_." Jihoon says, voice lazy, syrup thick.

And then he goes quiet.

His hand has slid down, the heel of his palm resting on Seungcheol's belt. It pauses there and Seungcheol knows that Jihoon is letting him decide. That it's _his_ choice what happens next.

Seungcheol’s sure that his swallow is visible, if not audible.

“Christ, Jihoon,” Seungcheol leans down to rest his forehead against Jihoon’s and takes a deep shaky breath. Jihoon reeks of sweat and alcohol and smoke, not usual or even _sober_ Jihoon smells, and Seungcheol, newly reminded, leans away and shakes his head.

“You’re not yourself right now. Go to sleep, we’ll talk in the morning.” Seungcheol says in a gruff voice that he suspects fools absolutely no one.

Jihoon’s hand falls away from his belt. His lashes droop—excruciatingly fragile.

Seungcheol takes opportunity of the silence to stand and move across the room, create a little distance between them. There’s no fucking way he can sleep next to Jihoon tonight. No fucking way he can be that close and control--

“I’m sorry I’m not what you want.” Jihoon speaks up suddenly. His voice is slurred, words coming soft and misshapen out of his mouth. There's a subtle tremor under the words, something soft—hurt.

It’s enough to make Seungcheol pause at the foot of the bed, look back at his partner.

Jihoon’s eyes have already slid shut. 

Seungcheol lingers at the door, straddles the threshold, “You’ve never been so wrong about something Jihoonie." He murmurs, before he squares his shoulders, straightens his back and quietly leaves.

With nothing better to do, Seungcheol heads for the couch, grabs the spare blanket and pulls it up to his chin.

His dick is aching in his jeans, already wet at the tip. He presses his palm sharply against the base of his cock, wills himself to calm down, readies himself for a struggle and then surprises himself by dropping off to sleep easily.

* * *

 

Seungcheol wakes at 06:00, mostly because that's when his body's used to waking up. He doesn’t venture into the bedroom until after 9:00, because God knows Jihoon needs as much sleep as he can get.

There’s also the small matter of last night—and how the hell he’s meant to breach _that_ topic.

When he carries a cup of water into the bedroom, Jihoon's stretched out on the sheets like a chalk outline, in one of his rare still moments, somewhere between awake and asleep. Aside from some frankly ridiculous bed-head, he doesn’t look at all like he’d been drunk off his face the night before.

Then again—he hadn’t _actually_ drunk that much and maybe this is as hungover as Jihoon _gets_?

Seungcheol wonders how much he remembers.

“Morning Cupcake.”

Jihoon cracks open his eyes, but doesn’t respond—just keeps looking at him, as if waiting for him to come up with something more interesting. 

Seungcheol grasps for something else to break the silence. “Last night was fun. How are you feeling?”

Jihoon presses fingers against his temples and blinks several times, suggesting the world doesn't look quite right yet.

“I feel like someone drop-kicked me in the head, and someone else left a dead pigeon in my mouth.” He complains, half irritated and half miserable. Like his brain is currently torn between disgust and frustration that the body it relies on to carry it between crime scenes is suddenly broken.

Seungcheol grins and crosses the room, edges Jihoon over slightly with his hip so he can sit on the edge of the bed, holding out the cup.

Jihoon drags a hand over his face, struggles round until he can sit up and accept the drink.

"This isn't coffee," he protests, peering inside.

"No," Seungcheol says. "It's water with two dissolvable Paracetamol. There were no clean glasses."

Jihoon pulls a face.

" _Water_?" There's an unhappy whine there.

"You're recovering from a hangover Jihoon. A hangover brought on by two beers and a couple of shots _,_ but a hangover nonetheless. You’re dehydrated and achy, so drink that up first. I’m not going to caffeinate you until you can stand on your own two feet."

Jihoon eyeballs the glass like it might hold some other disturbing surprise inside. Something that isn't water. He looks at Seungcheol, who stares back impassively. Then he gives in, rolls his eyes and drinks it.

Seungcheol takes the cup from him and sets it down on the bedside table, watching as Jihoon glances down at the small mountain of bedding he’s got heaped around him.

“You slept on the couch?” Jihoon asks.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Jihoon huffs petulantly. “This is your bed. If anyone should have slept on the couch—”

“I wasn’t planning on it—but you kind of hogged the sheets and kicked me in the face.” Seungcheol lies easily.

Jihoon stares blankly at him. For an instant, Seungcheol thinks he’s seeing right through him – but then Jihoon’s mouth tilts into a small, crooked smile. “Sorry.”

He seems to accept that easily enough, and Seungcheol enjoys the strange rarity of being able to deceive him.

“Eugh—this is why I don’t drink.” Jihoon mutters in the next second, seemingly more to himself than to Seungcheol.

He spends a minute or so just wrestling with the bedsheets, which gives Seungcheol a stupendous view of his pale legs, then flops back onto the mattress with a rather martyred-sounding sigh.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad was I?”

Seungcheol quirks an eyebrow. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Jihoon peers at Seungcheol from under the arm thrown over his face. “Last night. Did I do anything…. _stupid_?”

“You mean you don’t remember climbing on top of the table and doing a strip tease for Junhui?” Seungcheol says evenly.

Jihoon stiffens with almost palpable horror, like he thinks he might have just done that.

Seungcheol grins. “I’m kidding. You were fine, honestly. You just asked for pancakes and got pissed when I lied to you about them.”

Jihoon cuts him a narrow look. “You _lied_ to me about pancakes?”

“It was for your own good. I was trying to convince you to come home with me, but you wanted to go _bar hopping_.”

Jihoon looks off to the side, but it doesn’t hide his smile. “That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

Seungcheol nods sagely. “Hence the deception.”

“Hmm. So, will there be pancakes?” He asks tentatively, poking Seungcheol’s thigh with his toes.

“That can be arranged.” Seungcheol says.

The funny thing about Jihoon is that, for all his bristles, he's really very easy to please. 

“Good.” Jihoon harrumphs, and then he’s yawning so widely Seungcheol can practically see his tonsils and nuzzling back into his pillow like a fretful kitten.

Seungcheol will let all his fingernails be yanked out rather than make that comparison out loud, but when he bends close and combs his fingers through the most egregiously ruffled portion of Jihoon’s hair, he swears he hears him purr.

Seungcheol takes advantage of the moment, of the stillness and the view.

He raises one of his hands to slide lazily across Jihoon's back, while he's not protesting, or talking, or demanding his caffeine fix. Though Seungcheol knows it won't be long at all before Jihoon's brain takes over again and he's all movement and purpose. Before he dashes away in a flurry of thought and motion, leaving Seungcheol to try and keep up.

Jihoon's back shifts under Seungcheol's fingers and for a moment he thinks he's the one that caused it.

"Sorry, I didn't…….are you _ticklish_?" he asks. The idea of it is kind of preposterous, and Seungcheol can't help but be amused.

"Of course not. My self control is _excellent_ ," Jihoon says slowly, pointedly, into the pillow. Giving the impression that people who are ticklish just aren't trying hard enough.

Seungcheol makes a curious noise, then drags a finger up the back of Jihoon's leg, carefully around the calf muscle, across the back of the knee.

Which gets him absolutely nothing.

There's always a chance Jihoon really isn't ticklish, some people aren't and it wouldn’t be unusual in the slightest for Jihoon to be unlike everyone else. Possibly just to spite the rest of humanity. Jihoon does enjoy spiting humanity.

But then Seungcheol's fingers find the back of his thigh and the skin tightens, the muscles on Jihoon's back drawing taut.

It's almost unnoticeable, but Seungcheol's watching for it.

Maybe Jihoon simply assumes he's not ticklish because no one has ever _tried_ tickling him before.

"I thought your self-control was excellent?" Seungcheol drawls. He tries the movement again, fingers spread, lighter this time.

Jihoon's foot twitches, toes curling and he makes a noise into the pillow, something short that he obviously doesn't intend. It's there, it's viciously controlled but it's _there_.

The rush of quiet and unexpected power is  _astonishing_. Seungcheol should probably feel guilty about it, but he really, really doesn't.

He runs his fingers over the tapered, sheet covered curve of Jihoon's waist and the noise comes again, louder.

"C-cheol." It's breathy, warning, trying its damnedest to be irritated but there's something, an edge, something almost helpless about it. Which is unexpectedly...interesting.

"Yeah?" Seungcheol offers, but doesn't stop.

He finds an exposed patch of skin where his T-shirt has bunched up, over the curve of Jihoon's ribs and trails his fingertips there, soft through the hard curves and shallows.

Jihoon's hand shifts and then clenches on the pillow, an abortive attempt to bring his arm down. Seungcheol stays in that spot until he gets a soft bitten-off whine, then drifts higher.

It's a gasp this time, quickly smothered.

The soft dip of Jihoon's hip is too tempting, far too tempting to resist. Seungcheol trails his fingers there next.

Jihoon laughs then, it's a genuine laugh that comes out broken and messy, then his arm jolts down the bed, trapping Seungcheol’s hand.

“Are you going to make me pancakes or what?” Jihoon huffs, turning is head to look at him, bright eyed and flushed.  

Seungcheol knows he's only pretending to be cross, but he concedes graciously anyway. “Pancakes it is.”

Jihoon smiles, reluctantly lets him draw his hand free.

* * *

 

Seungcheol heads to the kitchen and starts setting out all the ingredients he’ll need for pancakes on the island.

A knock at the front door takes him by surprise as he’s about to turn on the hob, and the surprise only deepens when Seungcheol opens the door and finds his father standing in the hallway.

“Dad?” Seungcheol says.

Blood rushes through his eardrums. 

"Good morning Seungcheol. I saw a doorbell, but I wasn’t sure this was your place and I didn’t want to inconvenience a stranger by buzzing it this early in the morning.” His father says, breezing inside, as if certain of his welcome.

“Come in, _please_.” Seungcheol says dryly, closing the door behind him.

His father steps into the living area, slides his hands into his pockets and looks around the apartment.

The way he glances around the place, his curious eyes taking in all the details, has Seungcheol on edge already. He really hates surprises.

His father looks older than he remembers. His hair is peppered with grey now, and there are more wrinkles round his eyes.

In Seungcheol’s opinion, they don't look much alike. They have the same eye colour, but that’s it, really; Dad is shorter and had once been leaner, but now he has something of a pot belly, which he attempts to hide under cable jumpers. Seungcheol's mum had been stocky like him, with a round face and sleek brown hair, and he remembers her eyes had been dark and happy.

“What are you doing here?” Seungcheol asks when his father wanders over to the coffee table and starts unapologetically snooping through his mail. 

His father takes a deep breath, and seems about to say something, then doesn’t. His expression is bleak. There are circles under his eyes.

“Well—if you’d bother answering my calls I wouldn’t have had to come down and check on you. You’re _avoiding_ me Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol sighs heavily. “Like I said on the phone, I’ve—"

“ _Cheollie_?”

At the sound of Jihoon’s voice filtering through the house, father’s face registers surprise.

“Yeah, in here. Gimme a second cupcake—” Seungcheol calls out. He turns back to his father, then looks awkwardly down at the floor. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy—yes I can see that. Seems I have _interrupted_ you.” His father says, the corners of his mouth tightening in disapproval.

Seungcheol can see where this conversation is going. Nowhere good.

“You are interrupting, but not the way you think.” He throws a hand down the corridor, “That was Jihoon.”

He's not expecting the smile he gets at that.

“ _Jihoon_? As in, your _partner_ , Jihoon?” His father asks, curious and amused.

“Yeah—uh—a colleague was celebrating his fifth year on the force and we had a few drinks. He stayed the night.”

His father’s gaze slides slowly over to the couch, where the cushions are still neatly arranged, then slower still to the archway of the corridor, beyond which his bedroom lies. His expression is keenly focused, eyes bright with intelligence as he puts two and two together.

“Partners sharing a bed, huh. They sure do it differently in Busan.” His father says, now watching him with wide eyes. There’s a lazy drawl to his voice that tells Seungcheol his interest is piqued.

“ _Cheollie_?” Jihoon calls out again.  

Seungcheol’s father holds onto his smile for the few seconds it takes Jihoon to emerge.

“Who are you talking—" Jihoon hesitates in the doorway as he sets his sights on a second, unfamiliar person in the room.

He looks appropriately stunned, but Seungcheol hardly gets a chance to explain before Jihoon, unsubtle as always, tries to flee the room.

“Jihoon—no, wait.” Seungcheol laughs, grabbing his arm quickly. “It’s okay—relax.” He grins, spinning Jihoon around and drawing him closer.

“Jihoon, this is my dad.” He gestures, cupping his other hand around the back of Jihoon’s neck. A few tendrils of Jihoon’s hair curl softly over his thumb. “Dad—Jihoon.”

“Oh.” Jihoon murmurs—then turns approximately ten different shades of red. “Mr Choi—It’s an honour to meet you.” He says, assuming his most professional demeanour and bowing.

“Like wise Jihoon, ” Seungcheol’s father smiles. He seems mildly amused by a Busan boy sporting a _Daegu_ police academy T-shirt.

“I didn’t—” Jihoon pauses, then straightens quickly, perhaps remembering he’s wearing nothing but some little tight navy cotton things—and said T-shirt. Seungcheol’s worn academy shirt slips off one shoulder and reaches his knees, but doesn't leave _much_ to the imagination.

Seungcheol has to work not to smirk at that.

God—he can’t believe he’s having inappropriate sexual thoughts about his partner while his father is in the same room.

Jihoon clearly suspects his amusement because he narrows his eyes at him rather ominously.

“I’m so sorry to be greeting you so—casually.” Jihoon says, trying to subtly draw the hem of his T-shirt down. “I had no idea you were coming to visit.”

“Neither was I.” Seungcheol mumbles. He does his best to keep the irritation out of his voice. From the glance darted his way by his father, he's not entirely successful.

“Well—I knew the likelihood of Seungcheol ever inviting me was slim to none, so I decided to invite myself.” His father continues undeterred, “Can you believe he’s been living here for almost two years and this is the first time I’ve been in this apartment? You’d almost think he was inventing cases to keep himself occupied.”

Seungcheol sighs and prepares to defend himself. _Again_.

“That’s actually my fault Mr Choi.” Jihoon speaks up unexpectedly, throwing a warm smile in Seungcheol’s direction. “I’m terrible at pulling overtime at work, and poor Seungcheol is forced along with me. I hardly let him have any time off, and it’s only recently we’ve had a lull in our caseload.”

Seungcheol’s father considers him silently for a long time before saying, “Well, if you’re the one defending him—I suppose I should cut him some slack. After everything he’s told me about you, I know you’re the last person to let him off easy.”

Jihoon begins to look adorably embarrassed again, and stabs a thumb in the direction of the front door.

“I’ll should get going, leave you two to catch—”

“Oh, please—” Seungcheol’s father waves him off kindly. “Don’t leave on my benefit. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for ages. And since you’re both awake—we can have breakfast together. Come on—my treat.”

Seungcheol stifles a heartfelt groan.

He wonders what crime he’s committed in a previous life. It must have been something pretty heinous—because he can’t think of anything he wants to do less right now than sit and listen to his father recite every one of his failures to the love of his life.  

 

* * *

 

Jihoon should have left the second he regained enough consciousness to walk in a straight line, but one sideways look at Seungcheol’s despondent face has him twisting his reply awkwardly from. _“Oh, I can’t—”_ to _“—Wait to get some breakfast!’_

God—he sounded like such a dork. But he doesn't want to leave Seungcheol alone just yet.

So he doesn't.

Breakfast turns out to be a small neighbourhood diner a little off the beaten path. Jihoon’s never been here before, but he knows Seungcheol’s picked it so he won’t have to worry about ardent fans or creepy stalkers recognizing him here.

As they settle into a booth with well-worn leather seats, Seungcheol’s father favours Jihoon with a fond look, and now that he’s directly in front of him, Jihoon can see the familial resemblance between father and son.

“I’m glad we’re finally getting this chance to meet Jihoon. With the way Seungcheol’s been waxing lyrical about you, I was beginning to think you were a figment of his imagination.”

“Oh, well—uhm.” Jihoon flusters, at a loss of how to reply to that. He wishes it were possible for the leather seat to simply swallow him up, but he isn't counting on it.

A quick glance to a smirking Seungcheol seated next to him indicates his partner is enjoying his awkward squirming a little too much.

“Seungcheol’s too kind. Whatever he’s said—I’m sure it’s heavily exaggerated.”

“I doubt that, but modesty is the highest intelligence. That’s what I like about you Jihoon. You’re down to earth, grounded. That’s what _head in the clouds_ here needs to be.” Choi Senior says, nodding at his son.

The man's tone is teasing, but there is something of honest concern underlying it.

“Seungcheol’s far more grounded than I am really. I rely on him to keep me sane when I lose sight of things.” Jihoon says, sharing a quick look with his partner. “I—I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him.”

He’s afraid everything he feels about Seungcheol is broadcast in his voice, but the comment seems to make Mr Choi take pause and most importantly, it makes Seungcheol happy.

Mr Choi smiles pleasantly—dividing a look between them. “I’m sure it goes both ways.”

Jihoon fills Choi Senior in on their cases so far, while Choi Senior in turn talks a few of his past ones, including a graphic account of decapitation that gets them horrified looks from everyone within hearing range.

Jihoon’s only half-paying attention to the conversation, the other half of his mind occupied by the man in the seat next to him.

Seungcheol’s clearly miserable.

His cheeks are ruddy and his shoulders slump a little further every time his father addresses his incompetence directly. 

It’s kind of sad to see.

Seungcheol hadn’t been exaggerating about his father—he _is_ a difficult man to please.

It doesn’t matter what topic they’re discussing, he still manages to find a thread in the conversation he can twist to make a disparaging comment about his son. Jihoon has to skilfully divert the conversation time and time again on to more neutral ground, smoothing over biting remarks about Seungcheol’s foolhardiness with examples of his heroism.

It’s exhausting work—and this was just supposed to be a friendly _‘get to know you’_ breakfast not a fucking interrogation.

Jihoon can’t even _begin_ to imagine what it must have been like for Seungcheol growing up surrounded with this endless criticism.

It’s a wonder he bothers to wake up in the morning when his father has such little faith in him.

But that’s just Seungcheol down to a t.

He’s got an attitude that the department sorely needs—an optimism and enthusiasm that all the officers have to remind themselves to cling tightly to. Jihoon’s never been optimistic or enthusiastic about anything beyond his ability to do a good job, and he worked hard to build up that confidence. But Seungcheol seems to produce it in spades and from some innate place inside him untouched by the often-times dreary exterior of the real-world.

“—and you can actually learn a lot after decomposition of the body you would never pick up on during an autopsy. Forensic anthropology is a gateway for cold cases, if you can get around the exhumation taboo,” Choi Senior is saying when Jihoon focuses in on his chatter again.

Jihoon’s head snaps up. “We’ve got a cold case we’ve been working on for some time now. I’m sure Seungcheol’s told you about it.”

Choi Senior nods, leaning back in his seat. “He has. The Bridge murders—very interesting stuff. I’ve repeatedly offered my insight, but Seungcheol’s never been one to take _good_ advice.”

“I—I’m sure that’s not true.” Jihoon smiles sheepishly.

Seungcheol sighs and tosses his napkin down on the table. “I’m going to the toilet. Try not to insult me too much while I’m away.” He grunts, standing and walking off.

Mr Choi laughs then, a dry, almost melancholy sound as he ducks his head.

“You must think I’m an awful father, Jihoon.” The question is clearly no question at all, and Mr Choi hardly waits a beat before adding, “I can’t approve of everything Seungcheol does, otherwise he won’t try to be any better. Even as a kid, he only pushed himself to accomplish things to prove something to someone else. Never to himself. You can imagine how frustrating that is as a parent.”

Jihoon studies the man sitting across from him carefully.

Mr Choi’s voice was even, but Jihoon could hear the thread of emotion he was trying hard to contain. Seungcheol’s his little boy—would always be his little boy—and Mr Choi Senior just wants what’s best for him.

Jihoon takes a deep breath, draws himself up, makes his voice firmer, “I’m not really in a position to judge anyone’s parenting, but with all due respect—I _do_ think you’re difficult to please. Seungcheol’s awesome—everyone loves him. Maybe you hear that all the time, but I was one of the very few people who wasn’t sold when I first met him, and now I’m probably his biggest fan. I used to think he got where he was through blind luck—but it’s not true. He works really hard, and what he deserves is a little more faith in his abilities.”

Mr Choi doesn't appear to take any offense. He laughs again, and this time it sounds a little more real. 

“You’re a good partner for him Jihoon, a good friend too. I just worry that if he’s paired with anyone less determined, he wouldn’t really strive to get anything done. That’s why I’m concerned about this promotion they’re offering him—I fear he’ll just slack off if you’re not there to motivate him.”

Jihoon swallows, left hand curling into a fist under the table. Something hot and ugly flares inside him.

For a long moment he can do nothing but blink dumbly, a horrible, sickening panic welling up in his stomach.

_A promotion?_

_Seungcheol’s moving on?_

_Already?_

_He hasn’t said anything._

_Why hasn’t he said anything?_

“He’s a good cop. He’s plenty determined, and he’ll get the job done, even when I’m not around.” Jihoon says, managing to infuse his voice with a calm he doesn't feel. 

“I hope you’re right.” Mr Choi says. He smiles at Jihoon, and it feels like a slap across the face.

Jihoon stares down at his coffee, every moment from the past year and a half flashing through his mind in a flurry of images and emotions, every one tied to Seungcheol, wrapped around him like a thin, unbreakable thread.

He folds his napkin neatly and lays it on the table, his hands shaking. “Mr Choi, I hope you don’t mind if I head off now. I’m not much of a drinker and I’m afraid last night is catching up with me.”

Choi senior blinks, startled, then graciously nods.

“Of course not. If you were matching my son drink for drink I’m surprised you’re standing at all. It was lovely meeting you Jihoon.”

Jihoon manages a smile. He stands up and smooths down his shirt nervously.

“It was a pleasure meeting you too—and thank you for letting me talk your ear off about our case. I’ll definitely look up those reference sources you suggested.” He smiles, shuffling out of the booth.

He almost makes it out unimpeded, until Seungcheol catches up with him at the door to the café.

“Woah, hey—you’re leaving?” Seungcheol says, jogging to reach him.

Jihoon turns to take in the man standing in front of him; a man who’s breathtakingly gorgeous, terribly brilliant, deadly funny and everything in the world Jihoon thought he wanted—until now.

Jihoon bites back a reply along the lines of— _I’m not leaving. You’re the one who’s leaving apparently._

Instead, he takes a breath, lets it out.

“Yeah.” His voice only wavers a little. “Your dad came to town to see you, and I’m infringing really.”

Seungcheol snorts. “No, you’re not—he’s always pestered me about meeting you, but I’ve been too selfish keeping you to myself. Stay—he’d much rather chat with you than me, and later we can—""

“Seungcheol,” Jihoon interrupts, sharply enough to catch Seungcheol’s attention. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”

For one brief moment, something crumples in Seungcheol expression.

Jihoon can’t bear to look at it, and turns towards the door again. “I’ll see you on Monday—"

Suddenly, Seungcheol grabs his elbow, pulls him back around. “Hey, cupcake. Are you alright?”

Frustrated, upset, and a thousand other feelings all at once, Jihoon turns to face him. Seungcheol's expression is tight and confused.

“I’m fine—just a headache.” Jihoon attempts a smile—it’s weak. “Guess I do have a hangover after all.”

Seungcheol gives him a long, searching look. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods, takes a step back. “Okay. I’ll call you later. Make sure to drink plenty of water—get more sleep.”

Jihoon has to look away as Seungcheol’s face softens and a slow smile tugs at his lips.

“Yeah, sure.”

* * *

 

Seungcheol watches Jihoon step out of the café, a strange tremulous feeling in his stomach, before heading back to their table.

His father has evidently ordered more coffee for both of them, so there’s no skipping out early for him too anytime soon.

It takes his father a minute after he’s retaken his seat to say, “So, about this promotion the commissioner’s offered you.”

Seungcheol stops stirring creamer into his coffee.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He says, holding up a hand to ward off the incoming advice/lecture/reprimand.  

Disappointment passes fleetingly across his father’s face before his expression settles into concern. “I think we should. Your career is important Seungcheol, despite how you feel about taking my advice, I only want what’s best for you. I don’t want you making a decision you’ll regret, trapping you down a narrow career path.”

Seungcheol rests his elbows on the table and scrubs at his face, then runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been making my own decisions and living by their consequences for _years_. If I don’t want the job, you can’t make me take it, and _frankly_ , I’m a little pissed off you used your contacts to find out about it.”

His father blows out an impatient breath.

“The commissioner contacted me directly, Seungcheol, I didn’t— _wait_.” His father pauses. His brow knits; he studies Seungcheol like he is suddenly seeing him for the first time “You _don’t_ want the promotion?”

Seungcheol tilts his head back, narrows his eyes. “ _No_. I’m happy where I am. Isn’t this why you’re here? To _pester_ me into taking it?”

His father’s forehead smooths over. “No—I don’t want you to accept it either.”

He must be able to see the bewilderment Seungcheol feels in his expression, because he pauses and sits up straighter and seems to consider carefully what he says next. “The commissioner is an old friend. He contacted me back along because he thought I could persuade you where your Captain had failed. I told him I’d talk to you, but _not_ that I was planning on telling you to turn the offer _down_. I think it’s a terrible career move right now; these officials aren’t looking out for you, they’re looking out for themselves and as much as they’re painting this as some kind of glamourous promotion, I fear it’s just some publicity stunt.”

“Oh.” Seungcheol blinks and tucks that information away as calmly as he can. He manages to quirk one corner of his mouth into a convincing approximation of a smile “Glad we agree on _something_.”

His father returns his smile, his own expression faintly sheepish. “If you had of just accepted my calls, this conversation would have been over _weeks_ ago.”

Seungcheol dips his head in acknowledgement, “I really have been busy though. No lie. You heard Jihoonie—it’s been back to back cases for the last few months, and conversations with you can be pretty draining at the best of times.”

The little smile that’s been curving his father’s lips disappears.

He lets out a slow breath and rubs the back of his neck. For a moment, Seungcheol worries that he’s offended him, until his father finally nods and says, “So, about Jihoon.”

“What about him?” Seungcheol answers, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You’re in love with him.” His father says.

He hadn’t planned on it, but Seungcheol showers the entire table and his father in a spray of hot coffee.

“Fuck—sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” Seungcheol winces, scrambling to fetch napkins from the dispenser.

His father extracts a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wipes the dabs at the coffee splatter on his face. “I take it by your _reaction_ , that was a revelation for you?”

“No—no. I—” Seungcheol blushes. He lowers his voice, even though he doesn’t expect the people in the next cubicle give a damn. “I knew. I’ve known for ages how I feel about him, I just didn’t think you would pick up on anything.”

“Oh, Son.” His father laughs, dropping the soiled handkerchief on the table and reaching over to pat him on the hand. Seungcheol seems to be getting a lot of pats on the hands these days. “I didn’t have to be a detective for over thirty years to pick _that_ up.”

* * *

 

At home, the flat greets Jihoon with dull silence, and the stubborn headache he's done his best to ignore all day overtakes him at last.

It's been weeks since he's returned to his own apartment, and there's dust on all the surfaces, a stack of letters by the door and an empty fridge to contend with.

It's depressing, but he accepts that this is probably what it's going to be like soon.

He hangs his jacket on the door with a tired sigh, rubs idly at his temple, and wonders if he should start to worry that he hasn't recovered a single memory after his second shot last night.

Quite likely he should consider sleeping it off. Instead he heads towards the bathroom for a quick shower.

Except the thought of going to work one day to a new partner, of investigating a crime scene without Seungcheol at his side, makes Jihoon's body lock in on itself so impossibly that he freezes, unable to walk, barely able to _breathe_. As if his muscles have all seized in a grand unified moment of  _no_.

Jihoon collapses on his knees in the corridor and lets out a breath.

One day at a time... one hour, when a day is too much. He might have to go down to minute-by-minute, but it doesn't matter.

Because Seungcheol is leaving, if not now then soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry.   
> Truly.   
> Remember I'm in more blue balled pain than you are.   
> But ISTG, the blue balls will end....one day.   
> Feel free to hurl blue balled abuse at me on my twitter. @havoktreeftw


	11. Pursuit in Progress

Jihoon’s phone is ringing.

His phone rings a lot, unfortunately. And while the rational part of Jihoon’s brain knows that the best way to shut the damn thing up is to actually  _answer_ … just no.

That hasn’t been happening. And he’s apparently too much of a masochist to just turn the phone off. So instead he listens to it ring and ring, stalked by melodic tones and curt message alerts that he’s eager to hear yet desperate to ignore.

Eventually he taps into his voicemail and listens.

 _“Hey Cupcake,”_ Seungcheol’s voice message begins, _“Just wanted to say... hey. Hope you’re feeling better. Give me a call if you feel like doing something later. Or you could just come over and chill. Um, okay. Talk to you later I guess.”_

The dorky concern in Seungcheol’s voice flows over him like a warm blanket before settling within his stomach like a rock.

Jihoon listens to the message seven times in a row, but doesn’t call him back.

He spends the rest of his weekend playing out various scenarios in his mind, trying to decide on the best way to approach Seungcheol about the newfound knowledge of his promotion. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t do anything but pace the floor, trying to imagine his partners reaction to the ‘ _Why the fuck didn’t you say anything sooner? Why did I have to hear about it from your dad?’—_ he’ll inevitably blurt out in a fit of anxiety stemmed anger.

By Monday he feels completely emotionally exhausted, burned down to the filter.

In contrast, Seungcheol seems on top of the world. He rolls up to the station ten minutes late, smiling and relaxed and so fucking happy it almost makes Jihoon angry.

Seungcheol clearly hasn’t spent all weekend thinking about _him_.

“Good morning Muffin.” He says, perching on the edge of Jihoon’s desk, none the wiser that Jihoon knows his secret. “Get up to much over the weekend? I tried calling you a few times, but you didn’t pick up. I, uhm, was starting to worry, then I figured you were still recovering from Friday night.”

Jihoon looks up at Seungcheol and tries to hold his gaze, but he can't.

He can't even maintain eye contact with Seungcheol anymore. His face is hot, and his throat is burning. The anger he’d managed to build up, to carry him through this, is dissipating fast.

“I was just—” He begins, searching for a plausible explanation and realizing he has little choice but to continue with the explanation Seungcheol had already conveniently created for him, “In bed for most of the time. Sleeping it off. My phone was on silent I guess.”

He takes a sip of his mostly cold coffee to bolster himself. “What about you? Did your dad enjoy the rest of his visit?”

Seungcheol looks out across the bull-pen and smiles.

The smile of a man who has his future neatly mapped out.

“Yeah, I guess. He really didn’t stay that long, but it was about time we talked. Which reminds me—” He turns to face Jihoon, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks for the emotional support over breakfast. If you weren’t there— _leading the defence_ —I probably would have just let him walk all over me. Thankfully, I got to tell him what I needed to after you left and we cleared the air.”

Jihoon's nodding, before he decides if he should or not. “That’s great. Anytime. I’m—happy to hear you cleared the air.”

He turns back to his work, wiggles the mouse to re-load his computer screen, picks up the case file. Inside are photos, crime scene reports, witness statements, an infinite pool of data. He frowns as he slowly leafs through the contents, trying to see what he hasn't before, doing what he does best, searching for connections.

He’s wholly immersed in the details that he flinches when he feels warm fingers brush lightly over his.

“What?” Jihoon says, looking up at his partner, aware too late that he sounds more serious than is called for.

“I was just….going to top up your coffee Cupcake.” Seungcheol says, eyebrow raised.

Jihoon smiles uneasily. “Oh, yeah—thanks.”

He sees Seungcheol register the incongruity, then lets it drop with a smile as he goes to re-fill the cup.

When he turns the corner, Jihoon exhales into the silence.

Okay. Change of plans.

If Seungcheol’s not going to bring it up, he shouldn’t either.

He'll keep his anxiety to himself because he doesn't see what other option there is. He wants to be supportive because he's Seungcheol’s friend—his anal and insufferable partner, and he should be happy for him in what is a well-earned promotion. That he’s carrying an inconvenient passion for Seungcheol isn't going to make a difference. There isn't a tale in the world that goes  _and then he turned around and saw him as if for the first time, and they lived happily ever after_.

Seungcheol is moving on soon, and how Jihoon feels about it isn’t going to change a damn thing.

* * *

 

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me again Officer Seungcheol. Or should I say— _detective_. I know you’re a very busy man with little time to spare.”

Seungcheol plasters on his most insincere smile and settles in his seat. “Oh, it’s no problem.”

It’s a lie of course. He’s got a heap of paperwork to finish and he’s missing lunch for this, but he’s been roped into another interview with the Busan Tribune by the Captain—some piece that’s recapping on ‘Busan’s Men of the year of the last decade’, and some things he can’t talk himself out of. Especially where free publicity for the station is concerned.

“It’s almost two years since you were named Busan’s man of the Year, and your issue was one of our best selling, if not _the_ best-selling.” The reporter says with a quirk of a smile, “How has fame affected you?”

Seungcheol pretends to mull it over.

“Oh, well—I try not to let it. The attention is flattering—but I’m a cop, with a job to do. I can’t let that get to my head. It’s not easy when every perp on the street recognises you, and on more than one occasion its’s actually jeopardized a case I’m working on. So, in the nicest way possible,” Seungcheol considers his choice of words. “I’m looking forward to the day people _stop_ recognising me.”

The reporter laughs and bats his knee playfully.

Seungcheol wishes she wouldn’t do that. He’s keenly aware of Jihoon glaring daggers at them from his desk.

“When we last spoke, you’d just been promoted and assigned a new partner. Now you’re working on homicide. What’s next in store for Busan’s most famous cop?” She asks, making notes with a hot pink pen.

“I’m pretty much enjoying what I’m doing now. Jihoon and I work really well together, and I want us to continue making a difference behind the scenes for a change.” He says, smiling over at his partner.

Jihoon stares back at him over the papers in his hand, a little furrow between his brows.

Seungcheol's not quite sure what emotion he's going for over there, expression somewhere between irritation and wounded abandonment, but before he can start second guessing himself, Jihoon’s expression quickly fades into a look of blank control, not a single emotion on display as he turns back to his notes.

Eventually the questions devolve into a rehash of what he’s been asked for the previous issue, and Seungcheol’s answers require very little consideration at all.

“Last question,” The reporter says, leaning forward intently. “And I hope you don’t think me to _bold_ to ask it, but our readers are curious. Are you _single_?”

Despite his years as a police officer, Seungcheol has never really perfected the art of a poker face.

He ends up blushing his way through his answer, “Ah—that’s complicated. I don’t really know how to explain it, but I’m not on the market, if you know what I mean.”

He can hear an irritated rustling of paper to his left.

He doesn't look at Jihoon—he doesn't want to know what Jihoon is thinking. He keeps his focus on the journalist, who writes some more in her notebook and then smiles again, easy going. "Married to the job I take it?" she winks.

“You could say that.”  Seungcheol laughs, finally sparing a quick look at his partner.

Jihoon’s doesn’t look as flattered as Seungcheol had hoped.

There’s something in his eyes, something Seungcheol’s never seen before. A wariness that Seungcheol wants to reach out and wipe away.

* * *

 

Jihoon has a dental appointment one Thursday morning, so arrives at the station a little later than usual to find Seungcheol sitting at his desk and chatting with a gorgeous young woman with an hourglass figure and a low-cut dress.

On second glance, he recognises her as the same journalist that interviewed Seungcheol before, for his spread in the Busan Tribune.

Is it possible that her beasts have gotten larger since last time? Jesus.

Seungcheol spots him, then excuses himself briefly to speak quietly with him.

“Hey—Just realised I forgot to tell you this was happening today. Captain Namjoon only mentioned it late last week and I can’t wiggle out of it. I know how you _hate_ this kind of stuff, so I’ll just handle it and you can do your own thing. Sound good?”

“Yeah, sure.” Jihoon mumbles quietly, taking a seat at his desk.

He might as well get used to doing his own thing. That _is_ how it’s going to be after all.

Hunching over his computer, he does his best to concentrate on the case they’re working on: a car jacking in Buam-Dong, the victim, an attractive professional woman in her forties, killed but not raped, the car abandoned, and a note left behind that contains scraps of courtly poetry.

It’s riveting stuff, _usually_ —but it's hard to think about anything other than interview taking place a few feet away and the precipice he's fragilely balanced upon.

Seungcheol’s marshalling all his charm for the interview of course, looks more at peace than Jihoon has ever seen him. He's laughing, actually throwing his head back and laughing. The journalist is touching him gently on the knee, over familiar, but what matters is that Seungcheol _lets_ her. His body language is writing odes to flirtation, and Jihoon feels a jar of stones empty into his stomach.

The feeling only intensifies when he hears the journalist ask, _“What’s next in store for Busan’s most famous cop?”_ and Seungcheol, lying through his fucking teeth answers, _“I’m pretty much enjoying what I’m doing now. Jihoon and I work really well together, and I want us to continue making a difference behind the scenes for a change.”_

Jihoon finds himself curling his fingers into a fist. The words swim up from the page, and he tastes the last sip of coffee in the back of his throat, threatening not to stay down. 

He’s furious. Nauseous with it, actually.

It’s one thing for Seungcheol to get promoted and leave him behind, to not _tell_ him about it—it’s another thing for him to keep acting like they’ll be partners forever, like he’s sticking around and all the better for it.

_How dare he._

It’s as if Jihoon’s listening to a stranger, a man who looks and sounds just like his partner, but is a fucking impostor, someone he doesn’t know at all. 

He honestly doesn't know how Seungcheol can keep the charade up—is masochistically impressed at his devotion to his part: the funny, loving partner that's so perfectly—too perfectly—suited for Jihoon, was everything he could have wanted or hoped for. Seungcheol was funny, creative, frustratingly competent. He was doting and understanding, would challenge Jihoon when he didn't even realize he needed the push.

Looking back, Jihoon realizes he's made a mistake here, a fatal error in calculation.

He’s grown too dependant on Seungcheol, too reliant on his support and when he leaves that support structure will crumble away, leaving Jihoon with _nothing_.

He needs to start doing things himself—like he used to _before_ Seungcheol came along.

He’ll get his own damn coffee, buy his own lunch, work overtime off the clock and sleep in his own fucking bed for a change. He needs to function without Seungcheol around to soothe his bristles.

Grimly, with determination, he begins to sort through and fold away his memories of Seungcheol, gathering up his feelings and moulding them into a more easily manageable shape; he imagines them to be small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, unable to overwhelm him, and then he puts them into a little box, which he puts into a another box, the one where he keeps all the things he doesn't want to think about—things that hurt him or confuse him or get in the way.

Seungcheol belongs in the box; there can be no other place for him in Jihoon's mind.

* * *

 

The next day, they’re called to a cramped one-bedroom apartment in Jurye-Dong.

It’s in a run-down building on the third floor, and contains all the vestiges of an older person's living space: ugly floral wall paper, weird plastic kitchen table cloth, and crocheted quilts on every surface.

Cosy, he supposes, if it weren’t the double homicide.

“Fucking hell.” Seungcheol says under his breath as he enters the bathroom.

Jihoon’s careful to breathe through his mouth as he follows him, but it does nothing to lessen the smell that’s already invaded his nostrils. The air is thick and unpleasant, it feels like he's swallowing some sort of rotting pond life with every breath. The grubby tiles glisten unnaturally, tacky with humidity.

The place is swarming with flies, most of which are still in their larval stage and congregated around the corpse folded in the bathtub. A male with shrivelled skin, dark blue-veins, and skin so translucent that he looks like he’d come apart at a single touch.

Jihoon can't help but look at him, and then he wants nothing but to look away.

He looks young, late twenties at most. His eyes are flat white, wide and staring, and the skin around his lips is darkly bruised.

“Baek Min-ho.” Mingyu introduces, gesturing at the corpse. “That’s what the landlord and a bunch of credit card statements on the coffee table say anyway. Can’t find any ID at the moment.”

Jihoon nods and makes a mental note for later.

“Drowning?” He says to the medical examiner loitering nearby, making notations on his clipboard.

“I can’t say for certain until I get him back to the lab, but yes, it looks to be that way,” the medical examiner replies grimly. “The autopsy will reveal if he was alive when he was submerged, and how much water we pump out will determine if he was unconscious or not. There’s no obvious trauma to indicate he knocked himself out by accident, but water retention could be disguising that.”

Jihoon clears his throat, pointedly looking away from the body as he asks, “Can you estimate a time of death?”

The man grimaces, uncertain.

“Five days.” Seungcheol interrupts smoothly.

He straightens up from where he’s measuring a muddy boot print on the floor. “Give or take. I spoke to the landlord outside, and apparently the sweet old lady next door complained about the noise disturbance last Wednesday. Said she heard a scream during the night, followed by loud _thudding_. The Landlord didn’t think to do anything about it till the rent was overdue, and that’s when he came a knocking.”

“Thudding?” Jihoon queries.

“Yep, second body’s in the bedroom.” Mingyu says, jerking his head. “Female, late twenties. None of the bills are addressed to her, but the neighbours say she’s Jung Yu-mi. The _girlfriend_.”

Jihoon nods and steps back into the corridor.

The bedroom’s the last door down the hall, and he pushes the door all the way open and sees a red-haired woman sprawled on the floor by the foot of the bed. Her head is in several distinct pieces, misshapen by force.

“Jesus,” Jihoon breathes. He turns to Mingyu who has followed him into the room, “You find a murder weapon?”

“Yeah.” Mingyu says, and produces a clear evidence bag with a candlestick inside.  It’s clotted with gore and hair. He gestures loosely at the female’s body. “You thinking he beat her to death and then drowned himself?”

“Maybe.” Jihoon murmurs, examining the candle stick.

The killer went to a lot of effort to destroy her face. A grotesquely passionate gesture.

“I don’t think so.” Seungcheol interjects, stepping into the room behind them.

He steps aside, turns his head to look back down the darkness of the hallway.

“There’s an extra set of boot prints here. Size 9. There’s a trail of them from the front room, down the hallway and back out again.” He says, turning his head. He gestures to a muddy boot-print partially concealed in the dirty carpet. “They’re in the bathroom too, at the top of the bath. I think someone was standing over the victim, holding his head under the water.”

Jihoon's expression of irritation is completely wasted, because Seungcheol isn't even bothering to look at him.

He’s busy circling the body on the floor, stopping at the victim’s feet and positioning himself where he probably suspects the killer stood to take the final blow.

“He was standing here when he swung at her.” Seungcheol announces a second later. “It lines up with the shoeprints. And there’s another cluster of them over there, so he must have flipped her over and—"

“They could be anybody’s shoeprints Seungcheol.” Jihoon can’t help interrupting sharply. “Lots of people have been in and out of here since we opened the scene. Lots of people have size 9 feet.”

That little outburst does draw Seungcheol’s attention then, and he looks up at Jihoon through his lashes.

“Nobody that’s been on the scene—I already cross checked. The victim and the Landlord are both a size 11. Mingyu and I are 13, the medical examiner’s a 12.” He pauses to look down at Jihoon’s boots, smiling fondly. “You’re a 5.”

“You’re a size 5?” Mingyu gasps in awe. “That’s so small. You have like— _baby feet_.”

“Shut up.” Jihoon huffs, scowling down at his ~~baby~~ feet.

“Besides,” Seungcheol continues. There’s a condescending smile in his voice—Jihoon doesn’t have to look at him to know it’s there. “The prints are dry. They _were_ wet—and they’ve dried. They’re not fresh like ours.”

Jihoon frowns but concedes the point.

He hands the candlestick back to Mingyu to study the rest of the bedroom.

“What’s that?” Seungcheol asks, frowning down at the candlestick in Mingyu’s hand. “The murder weapon?”

Mingyu nods.

Seungcheol’s jaw drops. “Oh my God. I know who the killer is!”

Jihoon whips his hand around to stare at him. “W-what? You _do_?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Seungcheol says, a weird little smile playing over his lips. “It’s colonel fucking Mustard in the bedroom with a candlestick.”

“Cleudo!” Mingyu barks out a laugh. “I love that game.”

Seungcheol plasters on a grin, “ _Same_. Do they still make it?”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow that he hopes Seungcheol understands is pretty damn unimpressed, because Seungcheol's attempt at levity, really not appropriate right now.

“Sorry,” Seungcheol chuckles sheepishly. “But c’mon—a candle stick?”

Jihoon ignores him to turn around and survey the room.

It’s almost as depressing as the rest of the apartment, with ceiling water spots that look like they could be breeding the next plague and floor sagging under threadbare carpeting.

A queen-sized bed with soiled sheets sits in one corner, a heap of dirty laundry in another. It’s sparsely furnished as a rental should be, and the only surface not cluttered with empty cans and spoiled food is the bedside table. There are tiny gouge marks on the polished surface, a dusting of fine white powder between the grooves; a straw and razor blade nearby.

Jihoon strokes two gloved fingertips over the table, rubs the powder between his fingers.

“Junkies.” Seungcheol pipes in flatly.

Jihoon sighs and dusts his gloves off. “Looks like.”

There are dozens of pictures messily taped to the walls— glossy photographs and smudged Polaroids. Some of the victim with friends, dancing, partying—enjoying a much brighter past. Most of the images are cut outs from magazines: French runway models and Kitsch designer handbags, the canals of Venice and cosy log cabins, all stitched together into some kind of ‘life goals’ collage.

So much for that. Her life ended here.

Jihoon finds a book underneath the victim’s pillow; a bright sunshine yellow journal; practically brand new with the price still stickered to the front.

He folds it open carefully. _‘Here goes nothing’ is_ written neatly on top of the first page.

An inauspicious way to start a new journal he thinks—but reads on.

_‘I’ve never been good at keeping a diary, but I’m going to give this a shot. Ji-Won said it would help because it helped her. Something about how looking back at my progress and seeing how far I’ve come would keep me motivated or something. Sounds lame, but…. I want to get better.’_

The first entry ends there, and Jihoon flips through a few days, skimming over the writing quickly.

He stops on an entry dating back two weeks, with an awful lot of frustrated scratch marks through it.

It’s still legible enough to read though.  

_‘I miss mom and dad and yeodongsaeng so much sometimes I think about picking up the phone. But I don’t want them to see me like this. Ji-Won says family are more supportive than you think, but I know they’d be so disappointed. Dad’s always seen me as his little girl, but if he knew the things I’ve done…When I’m better they’ll still be there, and I can make things right.”_

Jihoon can't help but wonder how different things would have been for her had she reached out to her family earlier.

Maybe they would have helped, maybe not.

What's the degree of depravity that cancels out love? The level of monstrousness that blots out familial devotion? These are questions that haunt Jihoon for obvious reasons.

The tensile strength of human affection is beautiful and terrifying, how far it will stretch, how grotesquely it twists and contorts before breaking.

He turns over a few more pages, reads the last entry—dated a week ago.

_‘Min-ho teased me about the wall collage. He can be such an ass sometimes. I don’t care if he thinks it’s stupid—Ji-Won said having something visible to motivate me was a good idea and nothing inspires me more than the life I used to have. He might not want to get better, but I do.’_

Jihoon stops reading abruptly, shoulders tensing as Seungcheol leans in to whisper, “What’s that big, beautiful brain of yours thinking?”

“It’s hard to think with all these interruptions.” Jihoon whispers back. Perhaps a bit indelicately.

Something flickers in Seungcheol’s eyes, there and gone in a flash.

He gives Jihoon a scrutinizing look and leans back. “Alright. Sorry.”

“Oh, uhm—guys.” Mingyu interjects from down the hallway. “You might want to check this out.”

Jihoon blows out a frustrated breath. “What is it?”

Mingyu appears in the doorway a moment latter, clutching a handful of soggy paper towels in his palms.

“You’re uhm, Bridge Murder case killer. He liked to smoke these—didn’t he?” He says, holding out his hand carefully, prying apart the paper to reveal a damp, half smoked cigarette.

Blood rushes through Jihoon’s eardrums.

He can feel Seungcheol standing close behind him, chest nearly pressed against his shoulders to get a better look.

“Goddammit,” Jihoon huffs, pulling on gloves and taking hold of the paper towel with a sickening clench in his chest.

Seungcheol produces an evidence bag out of his pocket and Jihoon carefully transfers the tattered remains of the cigarette stub inside before rounding on Mingyu.

“This is _evidence you moron_ —haven’t you been on enough crime scenes to know protocol by now. You’re not _supposed_ to touch the evidence, let alone mangle it with a paper towel.” Jihoon hisses. He knows he sounds frantic, but he doesn't care.

Mingyu is watching him with wide eyes. “I—I was just trying to salvage it. It was in the toilet bowl. I was about to take leak and just happened to look down and saw it floating there.”

“It’s alright Gyu.” Seungcheol says, soothingly, and Jihoon shakes his head.

“We need to get this to Wonwoo right away.”

Seungcheol sighs and rakes a hand through his hair, “Mingyu’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll take it now. I don’t trust this fuck up.” Jihoon grunts, moving towards the door.

Seungcheol suddenly grabs his arm, brings him to a standstill.  “ _Jihoon_ ,” He begins softly, pitching his voice for Jihoon’s ears alone. “We’re on an active crime-scene and we still have work to do. Let Mingyu take it, it’s his job.”

Jihoon hesitates before giving a tense nod.

He gives Mingyu the evidence bag, hands trembling and slippery with perspiration, “Straight to Wonwoo’s lab. Tell him it’s priority.”

The young officer bobs his head in agreement, looking relieved that there's finally something he can do to help. “I’ll take care of it Jihoon. I swear.”

When Mingyu leaves, Jihoon turns his attention back to crime-scene, running a hand agitatedly through his hair as he processes what this all means.

If this is another one of the Bridge Killer’s murders, it changes _everything_.

He tenses when he notices Seungcheol is just standing there, silently staring at him.

“What?”

Seungcheol takes in a breath, and there's a thoughtful beat of silence before he says, “You shouldn’t talk to Mingyu like that Jihoonie. He’s just trying to help, and neither of us would have done a better job salvaging that stub, okay. We don’t know how long it was floating in that bowl, and it’s a miracle he found it when he did.”

It's Seungcheol's work voice, cool, competent, a tone Jihoon has heard a million times before, every time they reconstruct a crime together. Only now, it's _reprimanding_ him. Gently, sure—but it skitters along Jihoon’s frayed nerves nonetheless.

A flare of hot anger surges through him. He’s always hated that condescending bullshit tone of Seungcheol, like Jihoon’s some alien being out of tune to human emotions.

“You know what, you’re the last person I need advising me on how I should conduct myself with others.”

It comes out harsh, louder and angrier than Jihoon intends, but Seungcheol seems to take it in stride.

His mouth is a thin line. He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll be in the bathroom if you need me.” He says, leaving.

* * *

 

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” Wonwoo smiles as Jihoon bursts into the lab.

“Is it from the vintage cigarette packet?” Jihoon says by way of greeting. “Does the acetate filter match the other cigarettes?”

In the beat of silence before Wonwoo speaks, Jihoon doesn't know what he's hoping to hear.

“It does.”

Jihoon slumps into the nearest stool available.

The moment feels strangely …. _anticlimactic_. Maybe because it just doesn’t quite fit?

He mulls it over in silence for a few minutes, trying to translate that into something that makes sense in his head before turning to Wonwoo.

“This doesn’t make any sense. The MO is _completely_ different. He’s never targeted two people at the same time and he’s _never_ targeted a female. He didn’t use restraints, he didn’t draw their deaths out over a period of hours and the bodies were left _in_ the apartment. We call him the Bridge killer for a reason— _how_ is this the same guy?”

Wonwoo shrugs, “Maybe he didn’t expect a second person in the apartment. Maybe he had to improvise.”

“ _Collateral damage_?” Jihoon blinks, surmising what Wonwoo isn’t saying. “You think our killer killed Yu-mi to cover his tracks?”

Wonwoo wrinkles his nose in response, “I don’t _know_. I’m not a detective. I just tell you what the evidence tells me, and the evidence tells me the _man_ was the intended victim here. He was drugged with the same sedative cocktail used in the previous murders, administered through an autoinjector. You have first-hand experience how fast _that_ works.”

“In a matter of minutes.” Jihoon agrees, “I was passed out on the floor before I knew what was happening.”

“Exactly.” Wonwoo nods. “The second victim however, was _not_ drugged. Cause of death—blunt force trauma. There’s no finesse, no apparent planning. Quick and brutal.”

Wonwoo pauses to bring up a crime scene photograph: a close up of Yu-mi’s bashed in skull.

“He hit her five times. The first blow swinging sideways, impacting on the _back_ of her head. It killed her pretty much instantly.”

Wonwoo taps a few buttons to split the display screen and pulls up another photograph: a shot taken further back, of Yu-mi’s body sprawled lengthwise.

“She collapses forward on the bedroom floor, but the blood spatter along the carpet indicates he didn’t stop there. He _rolled_ her over and then hit her four more times. Here—here, here and here.” Wonwoo says, demonstrating the angle of each blow against the first close-up of the victims pulpy remains.

Jihoon presses his hands together and sets them against his mouth.

“So—she had her back to him when he first hit her.” He repeats out loud, thinking it through. “How odd.”

Wonwoo’s voice breaks through his thoughts, “Why is that odd?”

“Someone who breaks into your apartment and drugs your boyfriend, isn’t someone you’d look away from. Ever. Unless you _knew_ them. Unless you didn’t think they would harm you too.” Jihoon raises his eyebrows at Wonwoo expectantly. “You know what _that_ tells me?”

Wonwoo looks at him, like he's debating whether that was a rhetorical question. He must eventually decide not. “Uh— _no_.”

Jihoon sighs. “It _means_ , she must have _known_ her killer.”

“Aren’t most people likely to be killed by someone they know?” Wonwoo asks, in a voice both vexed and sceptical. “I’m pretty sure that’s a statistic somewhere.”

Jihoon waves a frustrated hand, “No—I meant someone she knew more _personally_ , someone in a position of trust she wouldn’t think twice about turning her back to. You know your mailman, but if he showed up in your apartment in the middle of the night—you’d freak out. No, this person has to be _more_ than an acquaintance. There was no sign for forced entry, so he was allowed into the apartment or had use of the spare key.” He explains, adding a tick mark to the ‘Manipulative Highly Educated Meticulous Psychopath’ column in the balance sheet he's keeping in his head.

Wonwoo shrugs, like he couldn’t care less. “ _Anyway_ —for why you’re really here,” He taps a few keys on his keyboard and pulls up a new image; a bisection of the cigarette stub found in the apartment next to a bisection of another stub from a previous crime scene. “The cigarette—it’s a perfect match to the others. I couldn’t pull any DNA off the filter unfortunately.”

Jihoon nods in acknowledgment, “Understandable. It _was_ floating in the toilet bowl for almost a week, and I suspect our guy only managed a few puffs before he doused it anyway. He _was_ in a rush.”

“Uh huh.” Wonwoo clucks his tongue. “Well—"

“What I just don’t get is this,” Jihoon interrupts, tapping his chin. “Why bother lighting up in the first place if he’s anxious to leave? He must have panicked about the neighbours coming to investigate the noise, so why hang around any longer just to light a cigarette?”

Wonwoo makes a noise of vague, reluctant interest, but doesn't make any attempt to answer the question.

“I’ll tell you why, Wonu.” Jihoon points at him, beginning to answer his own question.

Wonwoo's eyebrows knit together almost comically. He's not the first person confused by Jihoon's zigzagging moods and conversational volleys.

“It’s because the cigarette is his trademark. _Not_ posing the body under the Bridge. _Not_ his exhausting and drawn out final blow. No. These last two murders are _proof_ that that vintage packet of Menthol’s is his trademark. He’s putting his fingerprint on the murder with each cigarette stub he leaves behind, claiming it as his own. If he never left it behind, how else were we to know he’s the one responsible?” Jihoon asks rhetorically.

Wonwoo doesn’t seem the least bit amazed by the relevance of this. For all his qualities, he’s not a very good soundboard. Seungcheol does a much better job looking awed by Jihoon’s genius.

 _I miss him_ —Jihoon thinks sadly— _I miss him so much and he hasn’t even left yet._

He shakes his head to clear it and continues. “The question we must ask ourselves now is—why the—”

“Jihoon!” Wonwoo interjects loudly. Loud enough for Jihoon to almost topple out of his stool in surprise.  

He rights himself awkwardly, levelling Wonwoo a confused look. “What’s wrong?”

Wonwoo huffs out an exasperated breath. “Stop asking me questions and answering them yourself, it’s really annoying.”

Jihoon deflates slightly.

“Oh, sorry. I uhm—it helps to talk this stuff out loud. Helps me think when I’m bouncing ideas off someone.” He mumbles— rubbing at his eyes tiredly. They feel like they have tiny grains of sand rolling around their surface.

He sighs heavily and looks across at Wonwoo, who is staring at him sceptically.

“Where’s Seungcheol?” Wonwoo asks.

Jihoon’s stomach clenches uncomfortably for a variety of reasons, mainly because he’s been trying to avoid thinking of that very thing.

The minute they’d arrived at the station, Captain Namjoon had called Seungcheol into his office to ‘discuss something’. Jihoon could pretty much guess what the conversation was about, and wasn’t ready to hang around and wait.

“I don’t know. I’m not his _wife_. Or husband. I’m not his keeper, I don’t know what he does every hour of the day. We live separate lives you know, we’re not joined at the hip. He could be the Bridge killer for all I know. I don’t have a sixth sense that tunes me into his location at any given moment. _Jesus_ —why’s everyone acting like we keep tabs on each other all the fucking time. I’m an _individual_ Wonwoo—I like to be treated as one, if it’s not too much to ask. We’re not a buy Seungcheol get Jihoon free deal, okay. I can venture out on my own without Seungcheol. I don’t need him to hold my hand.”

Wonwoo offers him one slow blink. It’s the most insulting thing Jihoon’s seen all day.

“Did you guys have a fight?”

Jihoon swallows, and feels the heat in his cheeks in way he hadn't really been concentrating on before.

“No. What makes you say that?”

Wonwoo's lips quirk wryly.  “What, _besides_ that little hissy fit you threw there?”

Jihoon scowls at him.  

Wonwoo leans back a safe distance and clears his throat, “It’s just rare to see you and Seungcheol apart these days. Everyone in the station talks about how you both are uhm, ya know—” He waves his hand in a vaguely suggestive way. “And he’s usually the one you bounce ideas off. The fact that you’re _here_ , trying to use me as a soundboard instead kind of suggests you’re avoiding him for some reason.”

“I’m not _avoiding_ him. I don’t know where he is,” Jihoon says in a quiet voice, all the energy draining out of him. “And I don’t always need him around to do my job, Wonu.”

One part of this is true. Jihoon likes to think that lessens the lie.

* * *

 

Often, the hardest part of homicide detectives’ job is breaking the news to the next of kin.  

Seungcheol despises it: the look of anguish on their faces—the crushing weight of sorrow and regret.

But it’s more respectful to do it in person than over the phone, so they do home visits—driving across town, across the country, to drink coffee at kitchen tables, tea in lawn chairs on back patios, eat cups of red jello in nursing homes.

It’s a lot of time in the car, but Captain Namjoon insists they take their time over it. This case has a large body count now—when it all blows over, when the press gets their hands on it, it needs to be noted that the Busan Police Department handled it the right way.

No two people react the same, but Jihoon knows what to say and when to say it—knows that sitting through the old photo albums and holding a sobbing mother’s hand is _just_ as important as getting his answers.  

In his patience, they learn more about the latest two victims than all the others combined. 

Jung Yu-mi, only 22 years old, liked horses and china dolls when she was a little girl. She got straight A’s on her report card, played the clarinet in the school orchestra and was the captain of the debate team. She studied French Language and Literature in SNU, then transferred to the Busan University of Foreign studies at the end of her second year to be closer to her older boyfriend.

Her family had disapproved of the move, disapproved of her boyfriend in general and with good reason it seems. He’d introduced her to the wrong people at college and an unsavoury lifestyle that saw her drop out a few months later. She’d confided in her younger sister that she’d actually been kicked out of her course for absence, and that she’d been using to cope with the stress and general disappointment—but that she had it _under control_.

Little did her sister know that she was thousands of dollars in debt and prostituting herself to pay for her habit.

In the end she was cutting pictures of Paris and Florence out of magazines and tapping them to the walls of her by-the-week room.

Her boyfriend and _intended_ victim, Baek Min-ho, had been a moderate success in his own right at the start. He’d been a graphic artist—published several cartoons online and in magazines—before a heroin addiction savaged his talent and his life.

His parents didn’t have much to share about him, but then he _had_ cut contact with them after he lost his job, and refused their offer of financial help on the condition he attend counselling sessions.

Neither of them should have expected to wind up as heroin addicts.

Neither of them could have imagined how they'd come to an end, victims of a serial killer, left to rot in a filthy apartment. But here they are, victims number 7 and 8.

Some days, Seungcheol thinks, the world’s a real ugly place to live.

* * *

 

“It’s Mingyu’s Birthday—” Seungcheol announces, leaning over Jihoon’s desk. “So we’re grabbing drinks later. Since we had so much fun last time—I thought I could _tempt_ you out again. Whaddya say?”

“I can’t. I have plans.” Jihoon says, too flatly and too fast.

Seungcheol waits, but Jihoon doesn't offer anything else. He has no choice but to stumble on, helplessly.

“Uhm, what plans?”

He might be mistaken, but Jihoon seems to squirm uncomfortably.

“I’m meeting up with an old school-friend.” Jihoon says, after a pause that borders on awkward. His eyes cut guiltily to the side. “I’ve been postponing it for a while and it’s the first free date we both have so they’ve invited me to theirs for dinner.”

“Oh—okay.” Seungcheol says. His throat feels suddenly dry. “Cool. Have fun.”

That isn't the kind of thing that normally bothers Seungcheol, but lately, Jihoon has been acting _differently_ around him.

Seungcheol's genuinely worried about the sharp crease in Jihoon's forehead. The one that's been there for days, never smoothing out, never quite sharpening into focus and curiosity. Like he's sitting on a problem he doesn't know how to solve. Seungcheol's seen Jihoon frustrated, he's seen him angry, but never this, something that feels lost.

Things are no better, days later.

Their case load always takes precedence, which is fine—apart from the fact that Jihoon seems to have turned himself into some sort of little automated workbot. He has every detail at his fingertips, has thought through every possible timeline and done background checks on every suspect and their mother. It’s admirable and professional and completely depressing.

At one point Seungcheol takes off his watch, sets it on the table in front of him, and watches Jihoon sit staring at his computer screen for ninety-seven minutes without once changing position.

It's not that he thinks Jihoon’s ignoring him.

No—Seungcheol can’t say that for certain. They’re partners, they work on cases together all day — there's got to be _some_ communication going on. Jihoon says lots of words to Seungcheol. Just, most of them have to do with evidence logs and interviews and search warrants. Which are fine and noble topics, each and every one of them, but Seungcheol find himself frustrated before long, a restless itch settling into him that only seems to spread every time he inadvertently catches Jihoon's eye over the desk.

 _Something’s bothering you_ , Seungcheol thinks at him.  _Tell me what’s wrong._

But Jihoon’s his usual stubborn self, never says anything that’s not related to a case they’re working on.

Seungcheol tries to compensate for Jihoon's distance by playing up the little idiosyncrasies that Jihoon's always found charming or irresistible; doodling in his case notes, playing up his accent, buying buttery pastries and Jihoon's favourite coffee and offering backrubs that Jihoon needs more than sleep.

None of it works.

He only gets as far as trailing his fingertips over the fine hairs on Jihoon’s nape, before his partner pulls away like a 1950s housewife. “I’m fine really. I don’t need a massage.”

Seungcheol sulks all the way back to his desk.

It’s clearly _not_ fine.

Not fine at all when Jihoon insists that Seungcheol head home alone each night, promising he’ll catch up with him, only for him never to show. He’s managed to dodge Seungcheol’s nightly invitations for the last three weeks, even spends his free weekends alone and makes excuses for why he’s not leaving the station for lunch.

Jihoon hardly has time for him off-duty anymore. It's like the only time Seungcheol can get his partner’s attention is when there's a dead body, and really, no wonder their entire dynamic is off. How are they supposed to stay even-keeled when they only make eye contact when it’s over a corpse?

There’s a wall building between them. Seungcheol can’t pinpoint its origin, but _feels_ it’s steady rise with each passing day.

Anxious, he buys groceries, looks up recipes, overthinks. Buys a too-nice bottle of wine and then goes back and buys something cheaper, twenty bucks, nothing special.

"You want to have dinner at my place tonight?" he says to Jihoon one afternoon. "I’ll cook."

He’s seated across the desk, looking at his partner intently, so he sees the conflicted expression cross over Jihoon’s face. It’s the sort of expression Jihoon only gets in the middle of a tough case, a dilemma where he thinks himself into exhaustion— _arguing_ himself into exhaustion. Seungcheol's fairly sure the only arguments Jihoon's ever lost are the ones he has against himself.

"I can’t," Jihoon says, not looking up from his notes, though he holds his place on the page with a finger.

"Why not? You love my cooking—or were you just being polite?” He grins, trying to laugh the rejection off.

Jihoon shrugs one shoulder, distant and distracted. “There’s this documentary about cave paintings showing in the theatre. I agreed I’d go with a friend.” he murmurs. He sounds weirdly uncomfortable with the topic.

Seungcheol’s mind boggles.

_Cave paintings?_

He didn’t know Jihoon was into that. Didn’t even know that cave paintings were something that people _could_ get into in the first place, but here is Jihoon—a notorious workaholic—pencilling it into his free time like it’s the must-see cinematic event of the century.

Seungcheol’s tempted to invite himself along too, but it sounds unbelievably boring and _frankly_ —a little made up?

It sounds like Jihoon’s angling for any excuse not to be near him. Seungcheol doesn't want to examine what that means too closely.

"Sure," He says, deflating, "Maybe next time."

"Maybe," Jihoon says, already back at his notes.

Seungcheol waits until the following Wednesday, sneaks a peek at Jihoon’s planner, which is empty, and falls in beside him on the stairs, brushing their shoulders together.

"Any plans tonight?" he says grinning. His voice sounds nowhere near as casual as he wants. A shadow of desperation leaks through; he sounds too damn earnest. He tries to ease off a little when he finishes, "I’ll make you that dinner. I’ve been practicing new recipes.”

Jihoon casts a wary look his way, askance, then his head tilts down and to the side, gaze cutting toward the floor as though he can't bear to look directly at him any longer.

The deliberate avoidance makes Seungcheol's gut clench, but he manages to hold his tongue.

"That sounds nice, but I’m beat Seungcheol," Jihoon says, staring down at his shoes. “I’m going to get an early night. Really need to catch up on some sleep.”

 _Then come back to mine. I miss having you in my bed. I miss holding you—_ Seungcheol doesn’t plead.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m pretty beat too.” He smiles genially instead.

He can’t begrudge his cupcake a few hours of well needed rest. 

But then the next Morning, when he pulls up at the station and sees Jihoon open the trunk of his car and pull out a box of case files, Seungcheol narrows his eyes; that mild niggling of concern suddenly blooming into outright worry.

So much for the ‘early night’.

Jihoon doesn’t look like he’s slept at all. He looks bleary and half-awake; there's a sugar stain from a donut on his cheek and his hair has that slightly demented look it gets when he's been dragging his hands through it. Then rolling it back and forth across the back of the couch, like he might be able to convince his brain to work better through the wonders of static electricity.

“You took the case notes home?” Seungcheol asks, falling into step with Jihoon as he approaches the entrance of the station.

Jihoon spares him a quick glance, shifting the box he’s carrying to his other arm. His expression masks too perfectly, and his voice carries barely a hint of feeling when he says, “I always take the case notes home.”

Seungcheol tries not to feel stung by the guarded air.

Seungcheol doesn’t say _‘but you usually take them to mine’,_ or _‘we usually work on them together’_ and he doesn’t point out that Jihoon hasn’t done a single hour of clocked overtime this month because he’s been working on his reports in secret, in his own apartment. He doesn’t point out any of those things, but he does place a hand on the double door and stops Jihoon from opening it.

His heart twists unpleasantly in his chest when Jihoon flinches back in surprise. Something about the movement speaks of wariness—a kicked dog flinching back from a hand raised in friendship.

“What?” Jihoon huffs, darting a glance at him, side-eyed.  

“Cupcake. What’s wrong?” Seungcheol asks. He keeps his voice soft, at least, instead of shouting the words the way he sort of wants to.

“Nothing.” Jihoon says quietly. The way he stubbornly refuses to meet Seungcheol’s eyes brands him a liar. “I’d just like to get inside—this box is heavy.”

Seungcheol nods anyway and sighs, low and tired, as he lets his hand drop away from the door.  

“You’ve got something on your cheek,” says Seungcheol, stepping forward. "— I'll just —" He licks the pad of his thumb and wipes Jihoon's cheek.

Jihoon's eyes widen, and then they go dark and longing, eyelashes fluttering. Seungcheol can hear the stutter of Jihoon's breath, can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.  

So they've still got this, he thinks, and relief rushes through him like a monsoon.

* * *

 

Jin-ho answers on the fourth ring, and by the sounds of the music and people laughing in the background, he’s in a bar somewhere.

“Detective Lee. This is a surprise.” Jin-Ho says, and he sounds genuinely so.

“Are you busy?”

“No—just finishing up here.” Jin-Ho, says—voice low. The music level decreases substantially, and Jihoon assumes Jin-Ho has made his way out of the bar, or at least into a back room. Jihoon knows he is finding privacy if he can, and he waits until Jin-Ho speaks again. “What can I do for you detective?”

Jihoon just about stops himself from doodling in the margins of his notebook. “I promised I’d tell you when I had more info regarding your brother’s case, so here I am.”

There’s a weighted silence across the line. It sounds like surprise.

“Yeah, you did. But—I figured that you and the DA were just _humouring_ me till Tae-Young got sent away. I never actually expected to hear from you again.”

Jihoon makes a face where nobody can see him. “But….I _promised_.”

Jin-ho barks out a sharp laugh, “Yeah, you did. And it’s very noble of you to keep it.”

The background thump of music and voices has faded to street noise. Jin-Ho appears to be on the move again. Jihoon doesn't even know what city he's calling from and he doesn't feel he's in a position to ask.

“Should you be out socialising while you’re under witness protection?” Jihoon asks.

There’s another few second of surprised silence from Jin-Ho before he speaks, “Are you concerned for my welfare detective, or are you just suspicious of my activities?”

“What? No, no.” Jihoon says, fidgeting with his pen. “It just sounds like you’re in a pretty public location, and I figured you’d be trying to keep a low profile for a while.”

There's a sharp whistle and a squeal of brakes. Jin ho must be hailing a cab.

“I was actually at work. I—uhm, the DA got me this job, as part of my new identity and all. I don’t have much in the line of skills or real-world qualifications to land me anything other than a bartending gig, so here I am, working below minimum pay.” He snorts, “Honest living.”

“Oh, right. Well, that’s good to hear.” Jihoon stammers, stupidly. “I’m glad you’re uhm— _keeping your nose clean?”_

He doesn’t mean to make that sound like a question, though he isn’t sure that’s the right thing to say in response. He wanted to sound encouraging, but he really doesn’t have the vocabulary for these kinds of conversations.

He’s better at consoling grieving families, not giving the verbal thumbs up to ex-cons.

Jin-Ho must agree, because he chuckles quietly in return and says, “I’m beginning to understand why they have you partnered up with that big fella.”

Jihoon laughs in spite of himself. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Oh, just—” Jin-Ho sighs. It sounds wistful. “There’s something about you. You’re not like other cops. I imagine your partner is very _protective_ of you—handling the creeps and psychos you need to interview.”

Jihoon frowns.

Technically, it's the truth. Seungcheol’s always been the one to interrogate the really problematic suspects if it’s a one-on-one interview, but there's no reason for Jin-Ho to know that.

“Listen, I may look small—no wait. I _am_ small. But just because I am small—doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself. I can do anything Seungcheol can, and I can do it a darn site more professional too.” He doesn’t know why he feels the need to add, “Besides, Seungcheol’s leaving soon, and I’ll have to do it all by myself anyway.”

Mercifully, Jin-Ho doesn’t allow an awkward silence to follow Jihoon’s prompted overshare,

“Wha—really?” He coughs, clears his throat. “He’s leaving? _Why_?”

“Yeah, he’s uhm, being promoted.” Jihoon replies, wishing he didn’t sound so damned wistful himself.

“And you’re not.” Jin-Ho says, like it’s the saddest thing he’s heard all day.

“No, but I wouldn’t want to be anyway. I like working homicide.” Jihoon grinds out, though it's more a petulant denial than a truth.

Jin-Ho hums doubtfully. “I know it doesn’t mean much, especially coming from me, but I’m sorry you’re losing your partner.”

Jihoon recognizes that the polite thing would be to thank Jin-Ho, or tell him it does mean something, but he’s never been one for false pleasantries, and he isn’t about to take up the habit now. Instead, he says, “Don’t be. Shit happens, people move on. I’m not sad about it.”

He immediately feels a giddy wave of hypocrisy threatening to overtake him.

No, not sad.

Just _devastated_.

God. He really didn’t expect this conversation to take this turn. He’s trying not to think about Seungcheol here. He just wants to brief Jin-Ho on what he’s discovered and--

“You wanna get a drink?” says Jin-Ho suddenly.

Jihoon's so surprised that he finds himself shaking his head before he can form a thought. “—I don’t. I uhm—I don’t really drink. I’m not very—I don’t—”

“Let’s grab some food then.” Jin-Ho continues, undeterred. “You can show me what you’ve found, and I can—I _dunno_ , maybe I can be of some help.”

Jihoon’s too utterly blindsided by the offer to respond.

It sounds so simple when Jin-Ho says it. Grab some food, maybe share a bottle of wine over a few autopsy photographs, like that’s not a weird thing to do with the brother of a murder victim of the serial killer you’re investigating.

No, that absolutely _is_ weird.

“What? You’re not gonna eat?” Jin-Ho drawls after a lengthy silence.

Jihoon’s mouth twists, “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you _detective_.” Jin-Ho says, voice husky, and Jihoon can feel his cheeks pink.

“No. I just… don’t think it’s appropriate.” Jihoon mumbles.

“It’s just dinner, detective. I’ll sit at the far side of the table. I’ll keep my hands to myself. I’ll be sure to have you home before nine.” Jin-Ho says, a smile in his voice now. He's finding this amusing. Jihoon should probably be offended.

“Okay.” Jihoon murmurs, then momentarily wonders when he’d taken complete leave of his senses. 

They arrange a time and a place, then Jihoon ends the call and stares at the screen, feeling like it’s the he’s agreed to the worst idea in the _world_.

He's so painfully awake it's conceivable he might never sleep again, as if his body has lost the genius for rest. His phone buzzes, and he reaches for it, slowly, fighting the sense that he's under water. It's a text from Jisoo wanting to know if he's available tomorrow night for dinner at his.  

The invitation is not entirely startling.

They do spend time together outside the office, and yet Jihoon suspects dinner will be accompanied by an interrogation or at least some well-meaning concern. He's glad to be able to text back with perfect truthfulness, _‘I just made a plan for the evening.’_

* * *

 

The table is tucked away in a quiet corner, between a pillar and a potted palm, no one paying the least bit of attention. Still, Jihoon can't decide what to with his hands. On the table, he knows, is rude, but folding them in his lap makes him feel like a girl. Not to be sexist, of course. 

He settles for skimming through his notes, picking out the photographs he’ll share with Jin-Ho.

At last, Jin-Ho comes through the door. He confers with the Maître-D, who points out the table, and there's a spark of recognition when the man sees Jihoon.

“Detective,” Jin-Ho smiles as he approaches. Jihoon gets to his feet, bumping the table, making the silverware clink. "Um. Hello."

“Sorry I’m late.” Jin-Ho says as they retake their seats. “It’s, uhm, kind of a journey where I’m coming from, and traffic into the city is killer at this time.”

“You drove in?” Jihoon asks, surprised Jin-Ho would suggest they meet somewhere so far out from where’s he’s been transferred. Then again, he knows he would have flat out refused to meet anywhere else.

“Yeah—I was advised to avoid public transport at all costs.” Jin-Ho grimaces, “More likely to be recognised that way.”

Jihoon purses his lips, “Sure, sure. Makes sense.”

The waiter brings menus. Jihoon studies his, while Jin-ho studies _him_.

After a few awkward minutes of this, Jihoon adopts the slightly threatening politeness that's been his first line of defence for years.

“Is there a problem with your menu?”

Jin-Ho smiles with humour and finally picks up his menu.

When the waiter returns, they order, and Jihoon follows Jin-Ho's lead. His own taste in cuisine tends more to the frozen and the microwavable at the moment. He hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks.

“So what have you got for me, detective.” Jin-Ho asks, thankfully cutting right to the chase when the waiter leaves with their order. “More evidence?”

Jihoon fidgets with his napkin slightly and shifts to a more comfortable position in his seat. “Double homicide actually.” He begins, pulling out a folder and sifting through his notes. He’s already selected a few pre-approved, non-graphic photographs of the scene to share, and hands them over to Jin-Ho, explaining, “Both victims in their twenties. A Baek Min-ho and a Jung Yu-Mi. Ring any bells?”

“Ahh—not really.” Jin-Ho, shakes his head. “I’m better with faces to be honest. And I don’t recognise either of them.” He says, turning the photographs this way and that to catch the light squarely.

Jihoon guessed as much. “Well—as for the murders, they were both killed in their apartment. One bludgeoned to death and the other drowned in the bathtub. It’s a slightly unusual set up to the previous victims, but it’s the same guy. I’m sure of it.”

Jin-Ho looks unconvinced, “How can you be sure?”

Jihoon bites his lip and carefully considers his next words. “The killer leaves _something_ behind at each crime-scene. For the sake of objectivity, I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s pretty unique to him and it’s what’s helped us establish the link between the murders in the first place.”

“Right—right.” Jin-Ho says, nodding along. He looks a little overwhelmed for a moment. “And these victims….they have a similar background to Wonho and the previous victims. _Addicts_?”

“Yeah, they fit the criteria.” Jihoon says, tapping his pen on the page. “ _Of course_ , he’s never targeted a female before and I don’t think her death was _planned_. It seems like he started off by drugging the male, but before he could take care of him in the usual way, he realised there was someone else in the apartment. He had to quickly improvise and deal with the female, then scrambled to finish the job before anyone came to investigate the noise disturbance.”

Jin-Ho is quiet for a long time, thinking it over.

Jihoon looks down at his notebook, where he realises he’s been absently doodling—another quirk he’s picked up from his partner.

 _I miss him_ —he thinks, then feels a surge of irritation, rips the page from the notebook and crumples it up to toss in the trash.

Jin-Ho is still silent across the table, and Jihoon wonders if this new break in the case is a little too much for him.

“If this is too much for you—” Jihoon begins gently.

“No, no. It’s not that,” Jin-Ho says, suddenly frantic. He’s staring intently at the photograph in his hand, and his voice is tense when he continues. “I can’t put my finger on it, but _something_ about this picture is familiar.”

Jihoon leans over to get a look and identifies the picture as one he’s taken of Jung Yu-mi’s bedroom wall.

The collage she’d stitched together is the focus, and Jin-Ho points directly at it. “I don’t recognise any of the people in the photographs here—but I got this feeling of Deja-Vu looking at it. I _swear_ I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

He sighs, and sets the photographs down, rubbing a hand over his brow. “But maybe I’m just struggling to—what’s that word, where you organise your emotions and memories into separate pieces, so you cope with heavy shit?”

“Uh—Compartmentalising?” Jihoon offers.

“Yeah,” Jin-Ho clicks his fingers. “That’s it. I’m probably not ‘compartmentalising’ this like I should. I’m imagining things that aren’t there cause I really wanna _find_ something.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “That’s understandable. This case is pretty close to home for you. It’s normal to see things that aren’t there.” He says, shuffling the photographs back into his folder.

“Bet you’re pretty good at that though, the compartmentalising bit. What with being a cop and all. With everything you’ve seen, it must come naturally to you.” Jin-Ho offers.

The corner of Jihoon's mouth tips upward, not because there's anything amusing in this situation, but simply because Jin-Ho and all the other John and Jane.Q Public’s will never understand what it’s like to think like a cop and likely never will.

Every case that lands on Jihoon’s desk is his responsibility: every killer on the loose is his to hunt, his to catch, his to bring successfully to trial so the families can have whatever feeble comfort justice has to offer. To fail at any part of that, even if it isn't directly his fault, even if no one could have foreseen what happened, is a crushing weight, one that's nearly impossible to bear.

There’s really no compartmentalising any of that.

“I have my days.”

They eat dinner and make small talk, have dessert and coffee, and Jihoon's stomach starts to lurch, food and butterflies battling it out as Jin-Ho _insists_ on paying in the end.  

“Thanks for dinner.” Jihoon says as they walk out together. "I’ll admit I thought this was a terrible idea, but it’s surprisingly nice to have a lay person to explain--"

Jin-Ho wraps a hand around his wrist and pulls him around the corner into a service driveway where deliveries are made, shadowy and out of view.

Jihoon has a scream forming on his mouth that will draw the attention of anyone in a five-mile radius to his rescue when Jin-Ho kisses it away, licking at his bottom lip, stroking his thumb over his cheek.

Jihoon lets it happen for all of ten seconds, before he recoils and brings his hands up to Jin-ho's shoulders to shove him off. 

“ _Woah_ —what are you _doing_?” Jihoon manages to squeak out. 

Jin-Ho ducks his head to hide a grin, “I know—I know. I said I’d keep my hands to myself, but I have shit self-control and you’re gorgeous.”

Jihoon stares. Possibly his mouth falls open.

He wonders if he can get away with making a mad dash towards his car and driving away and pretending _none_ of this is happening. He settles for coughing a few times and sliding his hands into his pockets. Distancing gestures, a whole riot of awkward body language which anyone should be able to read with their eyes closed.

But then—he notices it.

The way the light from the streetlamp slants across Jin-Ho's face casts the planes and hollows in stark relief, and Jihoon stares. He can't believe he's just now realizing how much Jin-Ho reminds him of Seungcheol. It makes a scary sort of sense now why he was never really objecting to this meeting.

His heart sinks a little.

There’s a jittery, itchy feeling under his skin, like he's going to be awake for the rest of his life. Flashes of sense memory take him off guard, Seungcheol's hands on him, Seungcheol's mouth and body, and suddenly he's too hot. It doesn't help that Jin-Ho’s standing so close, smelling like wool and cologne and manly assurance. Not quite Seungcheol smells, but close—and it's all getting tangled up in his head.

"Are you all right?" Jin-Ho's voice shatters the quiet, making Jihoon flinch.

For a moment, Jihoon closes his eyes and focuses on letting his breath out smoothly.

“I take it back.” He murmurs, blinking his eyes open. “This was a terrible idea.”

Jin-ho at least has the decency to look sheepish. He takes a step back, shoves his hands in his pockets and nods. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Jihoon doesn’t bother with a goodbye, just heads straight for his car and drives away.

When he gets home, slightly nauseas, the apartment is dark, cold, and empty. He stands in the middle of the dimly-lit living room, the sudden loneliness hitting him like a physical punch to the chest.

* * *

 

Everyone has noticed their shift in dynamic, which shouldn't surprise Jihoon, but somehow does. He feels eyes on them for days, sees the Captain’s raised eyebrows when they arrive to the station every morning in separate cars, notices Mingyu’s concerned looks when Seungcheol goes out for lunch and Jihoon eats alone at his desk, registers the unasked questions on Jisoo’s face when Jihoon slinks away at the end of the day with another box full of case notes.  

In retrospect, it’s only surprising that any of them wait for as long as they do before approaching Jihoon with their concerns.

It’s perhaps doubly surprising that it’s _Jeonghan_ who finally broaches the issue.

"Jihoon?" Jeonghan is standing awkwardly next to the desk where Jihoon is making notes on the chemical compounds the killer had used in his sedative. He’s wearing an open, serious expression that makes Jihoon automatically feel wary. "Are you okay?"

"I—yes," Jihoon says. He doesn't bother asking why Jeonghan wants to know. "I'm fine."

Jeonghan looks at him for a minute without saying anything, _assessing_. Then he sighs and drops a paper envelope down on his desk. “Care to explain these?”

Confused, Jihoon reaches for the envelope, unsealing it and tipping out a series of glossy photographs on the table.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake_ —Jihoon thinks, eyes flashing darkly over the grainy photographs of himself, standing outside a restaurant, locked in a less-than-fraternal embrace with an ex-con. Jihoon’s pale hands are clearly visible against Jin-Ho’s shoulders, no doubt taken milliseconds before Jihoon shoved him off, but none of that matters.

All these pictures just highlight one thing: that fucking stupid _kiss_.

"They’re from a surveillance unit that tails him whenever he strays too far," Jeonghan starts, awkward, and Jihoon ducks his head, staring at his photographs without seeing them.

He can guess where this is going now, but despite not _wanting_ the conversation to happen, he can't see a way out of it.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Jihoon adds quickly, staring down at his desk and wishing he was anywhere but here.

Jeonghan clears his throat. "I’m happy to hear that, because honestly, it looks pretty bad from where I’m standing. Like—really bad.”

"Jeonghan," Jihoon attempts, desperate to interrupt, but it does him no good.

"I could hardly believe what I was seeing when these photographs were handed to me," Jeonghan continues, earnest, "I nearly gave myself whiplash with the double take I did when I recognised you.”

His voice is so genuinely horrified that Jihoon's startled into laughter.

"Is it the ex-con thing?” Jeonghan says over the tail end of it. “Maybe it’s the bad boy image that attracts you—” He adds, then pauses as if waiting for an argument, but Jihoon's too busy feeling embarrassed to care. “I can’t imagine you going for this kind of low-life Jihoon, never mind that he’s the brother of one of the victims you’re investigating. I mean—he’s not _unattractive_ , and I guess if you’ve had a few beers he _kind of_ looks like Seungcheol, but I still—"

“Just stop!” Jihoon interjects sharply, trying to head him off. He can’t let Jeonghan go on thinking along these lines. “I met with the guy to go over the new evidence I found—because I promised him I would, because that was part of his _deal_ with you. Or have you forgotten he still has a dead brother now that you’ve got Tae-Young behind bars for life?”

Jeonghan opens his mouth like he's going to argue, then shuts it again. He grabs a nearby chair and takes a seat, leaning in close to speak. “I haven’t forgotten Jihoon. I just—” He gestures at the photographs, “What’s with the kiss?”

Jihoon’s stomach flips. He wants to be sick.

 _“He kissed me._ It was not a mutually agreed thing. He got the wrong impression and I corrected him pretty much right away, but of course you only have _these_ photographs and none of the ones where I shoved him off, told him it wasn’t going to happen and left in my own fucking car. Nothing’s going on, okay. And frankly, I’m pretty sickened that you think there is just because he _kind of_ looks like Seungcheol, like what—I’m gagging for anyone who barely resembles him?”

Jeonghan crosses and uncrosses his legs awkwardly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I know you guys are going through some weird rough patch at the moment, and I figured you were—”

Jeonghan’s deliberate pause burns like an accusation.

“What? On the _market_? Searching for Seungcheol _look-a-likes_? How desperate do you think I am exactly?”

Jeonghan levels him that flat, _no-bullshit-please_ look. “I don’t think you’re desperate Jihoon. But you have to admit you’ve been acting differently. _Especially_ with Seungcheol. You guys were getting pretty close one minute, and now Seungcheol’s sulking like a kicked puppy and you’re doing your best impersonation of Mr Freeze.”

The words are familiar enough, but Jeonghan’s tone is lacking the frivolous levity it normally holds, making the statement less of a jab and more an observation.

“Me and Jisoo have been trying to suss out what happened, but the impression we’ve gotten from Seungcheol is—he doesn’t even _know_ why you’re being icy with him. He’s reaching out and you’re the one who’s pulling away.”

Jihoon looks away, pushing down a scathing reply along the lines of  _spare me._

Of course _he’s_ the one coming across like the asshole here.

"Nothing happened," he says, honest, "I just found out something that made me reflect on the direction of our partnership, and I course corrected. It might seem cold or even cowardly to you, but it’s all I got." He shrugs, schooling his expression before meeting Jeonghan’s eyes. “Guess you could call it a defence mechanism.”

Jeonghan looks at him, his eyes intense, searching for cracks in Jihoon's façade.

Jihoon maintains eye-contact, letting the truth—or rather, the part of it that serves him best just then—show on his face until the line of Jeonghan's shoulders relax.

"Jihoonie," he says, warmth in his voice as he lays a steadying hand on Jihoon's shoulder. “What would Seungcheol ever do that you’d need to defend yourself against?”

Jihoon digs his teeth into his lip and shakes his head. “I don’t want to talk about it, and it’s not really my place to say anyway.”

* * *

 

In Jihoon's early days on the force, before he had any ability to distance himself from the misery he routinely observed, there would be random moments while working cases when everything was going along fine, fine, until suddenly it wasn't.

The reality of what had happened to another human being would collapse on him like a too-heavy weight, as if gravity had become brutally disordered. His stomach would rebel, and it would feel as if everything he'd ever eaten in his entire life was trying to come back up.

He feels that way today, only it’s worse than ever before.

After everything he's seen, he's not sure why there are some deaths that still have the power to shake him. Perhaps because this was a _child_. Or because his mother's expression was so cruelly bewildered. She kept shaking her head and saying, _"No, no, it can't be. He knows he's not supposed to go to the park alone.”_

Usually if he’s feeling this way—there’s a good chance the case is affecting Seungcheol too. They’ll talk it out, comfort each other—carefully put it behind them and then work their asses off to find the person responsible.

Only….It's become a ritual of sorts, the silent ride to the station afterward, the air thick with should-have and if-only.

Seungcheol stares out at the road ahead, keeping a careful eye on traffic, hands clutching the wheel and, for once, driving within the speed limit. This is how _he_ deals with the tough cases, becoming more purposeful, more coolly professional.

Jihoon is glad at least that he's not paying attention to him, can't see how he grips the door handle, hard enough that his knuckles turn white; even Seungcheol's steady presence can't keep the pictures from looping through Jihoon’s head, the horror of the crime scene replaying again and again. 

Jihoon finally speaks up when he starts paying attention to the buildings flashing by, and realizes they are going in the wrong direction.

“Where are we going?” He asks Seungcheol, having somehow expected to be dropped off at the station so he can collect his car and return home where he can have his breakdown in peace, thank you very much.

“Home.” Seungcheol tells, shifting the gears smoothly. “The captain’s given us the weekend off Jihoon.”

“Yeah but, you missed the turning for the station back there. I need to pick up my car.” Jihoon says, frowning.

He can see Seungcheol in his periphery, the indecisive flex of knuckles on the gearshift. Seungcheol doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but his hand’s gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than is probably healthy for either Seungcheol _or_ the wheel itself.

“I thought we could just go back to mine.”

Silence drops over them.

For a moment, Jihoon is too stunned to say anything. He resettles his weight in his seat, trying and failing to ease the twisting of his guts, the anxious clawing at his insides. He shakes his head, feeling a sense of desperation settle in.

The idea of being in Seungcheol’s space is just— too much right now.

“No. I’d rather be alone.” he finally replies in a deceptively calm, collected voice. Jihoon is rather proud of himself, given the sudden racing of his heart.

From the corner of his eye, he can see the stiffening of Seungcheol’s shoulders.

His partner shifts his gaze from the road to him, a pinch of concern between his eyes before he faces forward again, his lips pressed together. 

“I think after today that’s the last thing _either_ of us should do. I—I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Seungcheol urges, his voice low and serious.

A part of Jihoon wants to agree with him, wants to just go back to the familiar comfort of Seungcheol’s apartment and not have to think about the awfulness of this case. The other part of him, that small petty voice in his head whispers bitterly, _‘He’s leaving, and he still hasn’t had the balls to tell you.’_

He hates that voice. _Hates_ it.

But it wins out.

“Well then go grab a drink with your friends or hook up or something. I for one would like to be alone.” He says.

He _means_ it to come out vicious. Instead it sounds desperate and strained, like he's choking on it.

Seungcheol's face remains blank for a long moment, as if he can't process the meaning of the words, and then his expression breaks open, stoicism crumbling away.

“What’s up with you Jihoon? Why are you doing this?”

There's a melancholy behind his eyes, his words, that strikes Jihoon in his gut, makes him crumble apart.

_Why am I doing this?_

_Me?_

Words are beyond Jihoon right now, and there'd be no point anyway. He turns to look out the window, tears stinging his eyes. Only then does he realize they're parked along the side of the road.

Seungcheol’s even switched engine off, and settled more resolutely in the driver’s seat, as if he doesn't plan on going anywhere anytime soon.

He wants to fucking talk it out and seriously—no. Jihoon can’t do that right now.

Suddenly, Jihoon _has_ to get out of there. He’s starting to feel claustrophobic, which, god, has never happened before. The walls suddenly seem too close, and the little space that is left is sucking all the air from his lungs

He shoves open the door. “Fuck this, I’m walking.” He says as he's pulling himself out of the car. 

He immediately turns around and walks back to the station, all twenty something blocks, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Seungcheol doesn’t run after him, and his phone doesn’t ring.

He’s not surprised at all.

* * *

 

Outside the station the night is eerily still, unusual in the city even at this hour. Seungcheol rubs at his eyes, gritty with lack of sleep. His body feels almost numb with exhaustion, but he balks at the thought of going back to his apartment and inhabiting the space that Jihoon put his fingerprints all over, breathing in the exhaled carbon dioxide that he left behind. He needs to be free from any thought of him, even if only for a few hours.

He heads off on foot, finds a dive a few blocks away he’s never been to before and sits right up at the bar.

He manages to down half a pint before Jisoo finds him, sliding into the next stool.

In Seungcheol’s personal opinion, Jisoo’s wasted as a forensic phycologist; he’d be much more suited to a role as a fucking sniffer dog.

“Do you have a GPS tracker on me or something?” Seungcheol grunts, turned now toward the little television behind the bar, watching the grainy, skipping football game. “Why do you always find me when I don’t want to be found?”

Jisoo puts an arm around Seungcheol's shoulders and gives him a sideways hug, nearly knocking his pint over in the process. “It’s called being a good _friend_.”

Seungcheol snorts inelegantly. “I think you’re just nosey.”

Jisoo sighs. “You’re right. I am. Now— _spill_.” He says.

“Excuse me?” Seungcheol huffs, squirming out from under Jisoo's arm. 

There's a long pause before Jisoo sighs tiredly, “What the hell is going on between you and Jihoon? Something’s wrong. You realise that don’t you? _Please_ tell me you’ve noticed there’s something wrong with him and you’re not just a giant, oblivious doofus!”

Seungcheol rubs both hands over his face before sagging back against his seat, “Of course I’ve noticed Jisoo. I just don’t know what happened.”

He downs the other half of his pint in two gulps, sets it down empty and orders another before continuing. 

“One day he just closed up on me.” He says gruffly, wiping his mouth with his hand. “I don’t know why. I’ve been replaying the last few weeks in my head, every moment, thinking about what I could have said or done, and I can’t come up with anything.”

Jisoo gives him a long, gauging look—something everyone's been doing far too often lately—before nodding in acknowledgment.

“Jihoon does come across a little repressed. _Maybe_ , despite how _obvious_ you guys are, he’s not sure about how _you_ feel? Did you guys ever get around to talking about how you felt?” Jisoo asks, raising his eyebrows in anticipation.

Seungcheol shakes his head, manages a weak smile as the bartender slides another pint over. “We didn’t get around to it. It was on my agenda and I thought everything was heading in the right direction for that conversation—then suddenly it all _shifted_.”

“Did you sleep with someone else?” Jisoo asks. He sounds a little tentative, like he isn’t sure he should be asking but just can’t help himself.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, although deep down he fully expected this. “No—I wouldn’t. I love him.”

“Then—why’s he making out with other _guys_?” Jisoo says emphatically.

Seungcheol pauses with his pint glass half way to his lips. He sets it down with a thud.

“W-what?” he laughs. He can’t have heard Jisoo right.

Jisoo folds his hands on the counter and looks him straight in the eyes, “Me and Jeonghan have been talking, and he may have mentioned that he has these _photographs_ of Jihoon kissing this guy outside a restaurant last week. Now, Jeonghan told me not to say anything to you because he confronted Jihoon about it and apparently it was all just some big misunderstanding and he’s worried you’ll overreact. Which, in all fairness, yes—you probably will. And I probably _should_ have just kept my mouth shut, but I can’t just sit idly by and watch you sulk--”

Jisoo goes right on talking, but Seungcheol doesn’t really hear much after the word ‘ _Kissing’_.

The word snakes between Seungcheol’s ribs, lodging there with the cutting pain of a knife, and he realizes with a jolt that his bruised partnership with Jihoon is even more fucked than he thought.

He’s known for weeks that they have problems, of course. He’d have to be blind not to see the distance that’s settled between them—Jihoon’s doing, subtle at first but worse with time.

It was little things at first—a hint of frost in Jihoon’s greetings, Jihoon choosing seats at meetings that were a little farther away than usual, Jihoon occasionally ‘forgetting’ to say goodbye—as though he ever forgets _anything_.

For the past few days it’s seemed worse—studied avoidance, uncaring disinterest in anything but the case—but now Seungcheol understands that it’s  _been_  worse for too long.

He can do nothing but blink dumbly, a horrible, sickening panic welling up in his stomach as he thinks about Jihoon, _his cupcake_ , taking another guy home and….

The thought is enough to steal the air from Seungcheol's lungs, makes him want to scream.

Jihoon’s dating.

He’s fucking dating men in restaurants and kissing them in the streets and Jeonghan’s taking photographs of it all for some fucking reason.

“—told Hannie that nothing happened. But he went on to say that he found out something about you that made him reflect on your partnership. Any idea what that might be?” Jisoo’s statement jars Seungcheol from the deep-delving spiral of his thoughts.

“No. If I knew I would have--” He bites his tongue, cupping both hands over his face for a moment. He swallows a few times, trying to get himself back together. “I gotta go.” He says, quickly rising from his seat.

He shoves his way through the crowd, making a beeline for the exit.

He’s going to get to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing he does.

“Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” Jisoo’s voice calls out behind him.

* * *

 

Jihoon lays awake in the dark for hours, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of traffic in the street below.

As usual, case files are scattered all over the couch and the floor, but Jihoon’s given up trying to focus over an hour ago.

It’s next to impossible trying to concentrate when images keep churning up from the stockpile of things he'd be better off not thinking about: those photos so optimistically clipped of places Jung Yu-mi would never see, decorating a room she would be murdered in.

He rubs at his temples. His head feels like a balloon stretched too taut, threatening to explode.

The sharp ringing of his doorbell startles him enough to accidentally kick a file off the edge of the couch. He rescues it, then lurches to his feet, which feel suddenly very far away as he trudges over to answer the front door to find--

"Seungcheol." Jihoon gapes across the threshold.

His grip is white-knuckled on the doorknob as he stares at his partner standing in the dim apartment hallway.

Seungcheol’s staring at the ground with his hands in his pockets. His shirt is untucked, the edges wrinkled. When he finally looks up at Jihoon, his eyes are glassy and bloodshot; an expression of exhausted resignation.

Jihoon feels a gut-churning mixture of satisfaction and regret.

“We need to talk.” Seungcheol says, levelling Jihoon an intense stare that could bore holes into walls and unspool hardened criminals.

Jihoon knows he should meet that hard stare head on, but he can't keep his gaze from sliding away. His pulse is already rushing in his ears. He isn't ready for this conversation. He doesn't think he ever will be.

“Now?” Jihoon says tiredly. “It’s been a long day Seungcheol. Can this wait?”

“No—it _can’t_. It really can’t.” Seungcheol snaps, pushing past him into the apartment.

Jihoon stares out into the hallway dumbly for a minute, then closes the door when it becomes clear that Seungcheol’s not going to be discouraged easily.

He follows his partner’s steps into the living area.

Seungcheol stops in the middle of the room, then spins. He meets Jihoon’s eyes again in the process, and his mouth thins to an unhappy line.

Jihoon waits him out, trying to keep an expression of patient concern on his own face. He doesn’t need Seungcheol to know how off kilter this surprise visit is making him.

When Seungcheol isn’t immediately forthcoming with his intentions, Jihoon crosses his arms and leans a hip against the wall.

“I already know what this is about, so you can save whatever long ass speech you have prepared. It’s fine—I understand. I’ve had time to think about it, and I realise I was stupid to think you’d want to hang around when you could be doing absolutely anything else. Of course, this is just a stepping stone for you—of course you’re on to bigger and better things—I just—”

Hurt threatens to choke him into silence, but he swallows past it.

“Anyway. Congratulations, I wish you the best. You deserve it.” Jihoon finishes, surprised how rough the words sounded now that they’ve actually clawed their way to the surface.

A dozen emotions cross Seungcheol's face all at once. He opens and closes his mouth a few times.

Jihoon knows it’s cruel, but he gets a sick, perverse pleasure out of knocking him speechless, mingling with the sudden, almost shameful relief of finally getting that off his chest.

“What are you talking about?” Seungcheol says eventually.

He sounds unsure, small.

Jihoon’s brows pinch together. Nobody could be that good an actor.

“Your promotion. To special division. I assume that’s why you’re here?” Jihoon huffs.

Which, for a moment, leaves Seungcheol blinking at him in blank, non-hostile confusion.

“W-what? No I—” The hostility comes back quickly enough, but it’s focused now. “I’m here to find out why you’re making out with guys in the street!”

Jihoon’s brain catches up to what Seungcheol's saying, and his mouth falls open in shock. “I’m not making out with guys in the street!”

“Oh yeah? Jeonghan’s pictures say differently.” Seungcheol bites out.

“He _showed_ you?” Jihoon gapes. He’s not so much angry as he is incredulous. Although the anger will follow in a moment, sure enough.

Seungcheol visibly grits his teeth. “Yeah. I saw them all. All the pictures. It was disgusting, shocking stuff. You had your hands and tongues all over each other.”

“No, we didn’t!” Jihoon replies, outraged. The uncertainty on Seungcheol’s face makes something dawn on him. “You didn’t even _see_ the pictures, did you?”

Sure enough, an uneasy, uncertain twinge passes over Seungcheol’s face and then he sighs and admits, “Okay, maybe I didn’t. But I know what kissing looks like Jihoon—and you were doing it apparently. With some guy. And Jeonghan has pictures for some reason. Why does Jeonghan have pictures?” He flails a hand, as if it’s only occurred to him to ask that question.

For a split second, Jihoon considers lying.  “Because he had a surveillance unit tailing Jin-Ho.”

Seungcheol’s eyes widen a bit in surprise. “ _What_?”

Yep, definitely should have lied.

“Jin-Ho?” Seungcheol repeats, narrowing his eyes in an ugly, suspicious look. “You kissed Jin-Ho? That fucking _crook_! _He’s_ the one you’ve been kissing.”

“I did NOT kiss him. He kissed—” Jihoon catches his words and slips them back into his mouth. Teeth clenched tight, he takes a long, calming breath. “You know what, I don’t know why I’m even trying to explain any of this to you. It’s actually none of your business.”

Seungcheol breathes in and out several times in quick succession, fury bubbling to the surface. He comes close, his face grave.

“Tell me the truth—are you sleeping with him?”

Jihoon wants to laugh, but the sound won't work properly from his throat.

“Yeah, yeah I am actually. He’s in the bedroom right now. Waiting for me—naked. You’re interrupting our passionate ex-con/police officer roleplay where we take turns cuffing each other to the ceiling fan.”

Something about that declaration—or maybe the detached levity in Jihoon’s voice—pushes Seungcheol in exactly the wrong way.

His eyes darken to a brown approaching black, and his hand curls into a fist at his side as his eyes drift away from Jihoon to glare in the direction of the bedroom. A troubled expression settles across his face, making Jihoon’s stomach tighten unpleasantly.  

“That’s not even funny Jihoon.” He says, keeping his voice low.

Jihoon feels his mouth twitch up in a humourless smile, “Do you _hear_ me laughing?”

Seungcheol flexes his jaw, then storms down the corridor with steely determination to check the bedroom for naked ex-cons. Jihoon accepts that he might have actually had to investigate a homicide in his own home had there in fact been a naked man waiting in his bedroom, but as it is—there isn’t, and a few moments later, Seungcheol appears in the mouth of the corridor looking decidedly relieved.   

“What? No Jin-Ho? Guess he must have slipped out the window when he heard you coming.” Jihoon grumbles quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t look hostile or angry anymore, just blank, almost tired. 

Jihoon takes a deep breath, draws himself up, makes his voice firmer, “For the record, I didn’t kiss him. I met up with him to go over some new evidence and he misread the moment. I cleared the misunderstanding with Hannie already. Or at least, I _thought_ I did. I have no idea why he felt the need to share it with you—like it’s your _business_ what I _do_ or something.” Jihoon clarifies, taking heart at the way startlement softens Seungcheol’s expression. 

“It is my business. It’s _you_. Anything to do with you is my business. You’re my partner.”

Jihoon laughs and shakes his head helplessly. He can’t _believe_ Seungcheol’s still bandying this doting partner image around, like he’s sticking around till the end.

“Not for long.” Jihoon responds, and he means it to be sarcastic, dismissive, but that's not how it comes out at all. 

Seungcheol’s eyes darken.

“Who told you about the promotion?” He says, edging closer, no longer safely on the other side of the room.

Jihoon tenses when it seems like Seungcheol might reach out to him. He can’t handle any touching while he’s trying to destroy his own last hope at happiness

“Does it matter? What difference does it make _how_ I know? You’re _leaving_.”

Shit, he didn’t mean to say that. He sounds too small, too bitter and selfish. That isn’t how he wants Seungcheol to remember him. But before he can think of what else to say, Seungcheol sighs, a deep, gusty lament.

“How long have you known for?”

“A few weeks.” Jihoon replies softly, an angry flush crawling up his neck.

“W-weeks?” Seungcheol echoes. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He casts his eyes to the ground, rubbing his forehead.

After a minute, Jihoon notices his shoulders are shaking—with laughter.

Jihoon jolts, turning to face Seungcheol but averting his eyes at the last minute. “Something funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” Seungcheol laughs, rattling and wet, too close to a sob. “I’m just realising why you’ve been a little bitch these past few weeks. It all makes sense.”

Jihoon can _feel_ his expression crumpling. He clamps his jaw shut, air punching out through his nostrils. Tears are burning, wet and fierce in his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall.

“Fuck you. Fuck you, you smug asshole. Get the fuck out—”

The rest of his words are forced back down his throat as Seungcheol closes the distance between them, backs him against the wall and……

……seals their mouths together.

Jihoon gasps, surprised at the suddenness of it, the raw ferocity—and again when Seungcheol's tongue slips past his parted lips.

It’s not how a first kiss should be. There’s no innocence here, no tentative exploration. Seungcheol is rough and lewd, shoving Jihoon against the wall, curling a hand around his throat and licking deep into his mouth.

Jihoon doesn't remember closing his eyes or moving moving his hands, but he’s in darkness now, and his fingers are grasping, fisted in the front of Seungcheol's shirt. He's holding on too tightly, and he parts his lips wider, inviting Seungcheol deeper, letting his own tongue probe forward to tangle in the kiss.

Seungcheol groans a hungry sound, low and greedy, and surges against him, crushing him roughly against the wall. His arousal presses a hard, unmistakable line of heat against Jihoon's thigh, and Jihoon’s head spins, overwhelmed.

He wrenches his head to the side, drags in a ragged breath, chokes out a desperate, “Cheol—what are you doing?”

Seungcheol’s panting, wild-eyed, breath hot against Jihoon's ear.

He grabs Jihoon's face in both hands and leans their foreheads together, “You gonna keep pretending you don’t want this too? Cause I can’t _do_ that anymore Jihoon. I’ve wanted you for two fucking years. I can’t keep pretending.” He admits, tracing the edge of Jihoon's lower lip with his thumb.

Jihoon can't help it. Despite the intensity of the moment, the spiking heat of arousal curling in his gut, the sting of the blood Seungcheol just sucked onto his lips—

Despite all of it, Jihoon gasps a dry burst of laughter. The sound cuts short, and he shakes his head.

“But you’re—”

“I’m not accepting any promotion Jihoon.” Seungcheol interjects, voice unrelenting like a metal grate. The hunger in his eyes twists deeper and sharper. “I’m not _going_ anywhere. I didn’t come here to tell you I was—I came here to confront you because you’ve been a cagey little bastard for the last month and I couldn’t fucking stand it anymore. Now I know you were just being a sulky little shit about a little misunderstanding.”

Seungcheol tries to level his voice but he's being rushed, trying to get everything out in the open.

Jihoon realizes just how little they've been talking in the past month

He flounders for something to say. “Your father said you—”

Seungcheol shakes his head with a frustrated noise, “My _dad_ thought I was accepting the promotion and I thought he was going to pressure me into taking it. That’s why I was avoiding his calls. But we talked it out. Everything was resolved. Why couldn’t _you_ just talk to me too? You should have just _told_ me what was bothering you instead of pushing me away like that. I thought I’d—” Seungcheol breaks off, sounding ragged. “I thought I’d hurt you.” He says, raw and low, almost on the edge of a sob.

“I—" Jihoon feels his stomach drop. The guilt sits in his veins like lead.

Hard as he tries, he can’t form the words to explain. He knows anything he can say now will sound stupid and petty in the face of Seungcheol’s explanation.

How could he have gotten this so wrong?

He lets his eyes close, just for a moment. Let’s himself hide. He really wishes he could figure out how to stop shaking.

It's only when he tastes salt on his lips that he realizes he’s crying.

“I’m sorry.” He sobs.

For a terrible infinite moment, the word hang in the air, fragile as a soap bubble.  

The tension in Seungcheol's arms relents by degrees, the nature of the embrace shifting, from anger and passion to comfort.

Jihoon feels something like fingers tracing carefully over his cheek, like a caress. They skim down the line of his jaw, before Seungcheol’s replaces them with his lips.

"Baby—don’t. Don’t cry, please."

Jihoon sags, resistance draining away and leaving him empty as he presses his face against Seungcheol's shoulder.  

Seungcheol strokes his hair, pulls him into his arms, hugs him in tight, so tight that Jihoon thinks his ribs might crush under the press. He feels abruptly worn out, his throat raw, heart aching. Even to his own ears his sobs sounds hoarse and desperate in a way he _never_ let show. Somehow, though, it feels important to be honest about this.

He lifts his head and takes a breath, and finds no moisture in his mouth at all.

He swallows roughly, twice, three times. His voice shakes, despite his best efforts. “I—I thought you were leaving, and I wanted to be okay with it. I _wanted_ to be supportive, but you were acting like you weren’t, like it didn’t matter if I arrived one day and you’d be gone.” He chokes out a sob, “It _did_ hurt.”

Seungcheol smiles and cups his face, wipes at the tears on his cheeks. “I’m not _going_ anywhere Jihoon. I turned down that promotion the second they offered it because I want to be right here—with you. I love you. Don’t you get that? I’m actually in fucking love with you _.”_

Seungcheol has said the same thing to him many times before, but Jihoon can’t help the soft, helpless sound that rolls from his throat.

He knows he looks like a mess—a snotty, tear-stricken mess if Seungcheol’s fond smile is anything to go by—and he can't bring himself to care because Seungcheol is here, right here in front of him, and everything's on the brink of changing.

Then, slowly, slow enough that Jihoon could stop it at any moment, Seungcheol presses him back against the wall, and kisses him.

It’s a timid thing, just mouth to open mouth and steady, unrelenting pressure, until Jihoon wraps his arms around Seungcheol’s neck, tilts his heads gently to deepen it and tastes the fragile sound Seungcheol makes low in his throat.

Jihoon loses all awareness of time, but he’s sure it goes on longer than he’s ever kissed anyone.

Seungcheol's got a hand under his shirt, fingers stroking frantically over warm skin, twitching at nipples and scraping down ribs. His mouth has migrated to Jihoon's exposed neck, sucking a hickey just below his ear.

Jihoon sighs and clings to his hair, pulls their mouths together, swallows and sucks and  _wants_  with everything he has in him.

He's suddenly burning up—hot all over, and he knows his dick hasn't been this hard since …..fuck he can’t even access his memories right now. He can just _feel_ how rigid Seungcheol is with every quick, hard snap of his pelvis and that’s all that matters.

Jihoon realizes he’s been desperate for ages, and not for sex. For the whole of Seungcheol. Ever since the man strolled into the station over two years ago, Jihoon’s body became a ticking clock, counting down to a moment when he could stop and just  _look_ and know he had him.

He slings his knee over Seungcheol's hip, drags everything in closer until their dicks are perfectly aligned, the friction unbelievably good. Seungcheol rips their mouths apart, growls low and throaty, has Jihoon leaking everywhere in his underwear.

He needs to get his pants off—needs to get Seungcheol naked. He feels suffocated, like his clothing is strangling him.

“ _Cheol_ ,” Jihoon moans, managing to shove Seungcheol’s jacket down his arms to clutch at his amazingly massive shoulders. He feels like there's some kind of creature, biting and clawing at him from the inside, trying to get closer to Seungcheol. “Oh fuck—Cheol.”

Seungcheol pushes him up against the wall and reaches between them, undoes Jihoon’s fly and wraps his big, thick fingers around Jihoon’s cock.

“Look at you—already dripping for me baby,” he says, smearing some pre-come around the head. His voice lower and deeper than Jihoon’s ever heard it. It sends a shiver through his entire body. Seungcheol starts to jack Jihoon slowly and Jihoon bites hard on his own tongue, hoping the pain will distract him and stop him from coming too soon.

“I wanna fuck you,” Seungcheol whispers into his ear, then bites the lobe, and Jihoon bucks up into his hand, whimpering. “You want that, hm?”

Jihoon shudders and grabs Seungcheol's arms to hold him steady. "Wait," he gasps, even as he’s thrusting into Seungcheol's firm grip.

He doesn't want to come in the hallway, and especially not in his rubber duckie boxers.

A moment after telling Seungcheol to stop, though, Seungcheol does, pulling his hand back but sucking wet, hot bruises onto Jihoon's jawline, crushing their bodies together.

"I can't," Seungcheol murmurs, his stubble scraping the skin of Jihoon's neck. His chest vibrates when he speaks. "Please don’t make me wait."

Jihoon’s too hot; a line of sweat drips between his shoulder blades, and he feels a flush creeping into his face.

He’s trapped between Seungcheol and the wall, a thigh shoved between his legs, and Seungcheol feels suddenly huge, his powerful hands gripping Jihoon's hips. Those plush lips are currently on his ear, then moving down the side of his face.

Jihoon runs his hands down Seungcheol's thick sides until he’s gripping his ass, pulling Seungcheol in until he feels Seungcheol's dick solidly press against him.

He wants to come. He wants Seungcheol's fat cock, any way he can get it.

Seungcheol groans roughly, his hips snapping, and Jihoon breathes in his ear, "Bedroom."

But Seungcheol’s not even listening anymore.

He’s frantically tugging at Jihoon’s clothing, pulling Jihoon’s sweatshirt off over his head and tossing it somewhere over his shoulder. He makes a dismayed little sound to find another layer—thermal underwear—beneath it.

“S’cold out,” Jihoon mumbles, and tugs the second shirt off himself.

Somehow, through teamwork, they manage to wrestle Jihoon out of his jeans and rubber duckie boxer-briefs, and then there’s nothing left.

Admittedly, it’s very flattering the way Seungcheol just pauses then to look at him, his lips parting and the bulge in his pants obvious. But they’re still in the hallway and Jihoon’s the only one naked here and he _really_ needs Seungcheol to take off his goddamn clothes!

"Can you get naked too?” Jihoon whines, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No.” Seungcheol says smugly, and seriously, Jihoon is thinking about denying Seungcheol sex before they've even started having it because he doesn’t need ‘No’s’ in his life right now.

“I’ll get naked later.” Seungcheol continues, smoothing warm hands over Jihoon’s chest and stomach, curling fingers around his hips. “But right now—I need to look at you.”

Jihoon wants to indignantly refuse to be the only one naked, but then reconsiders when Seungcheol drops to his knees in front of him, hooks one of Jihoon’s legs over his shoulder and covers his cock in slow, ardent kisses.

"Oh, God," Jihoon breathes.

He grabs Seungcheol’s head to steady himself, gasping at the wet heat of Seungcheol's mouth as Seungcheol swallows him down.

Seungcheol sucks him for a while, pulling back every now and then to mouth the head of his cock; he kisses the inside of Jihoon's thighs, nuzzles his belly, runs his lips along the bones of his hips.

Dimly, Jihoon hears embarrassingly loud sounds that he realises are coming from him, as he gasps and swears and moans and whimpers, tugging at Seungcheol's hair and trying hard not to come too soon.

When he glances down, Seungcheol is watching him, his normally brown eyes nearly black, glassy. His lips are stretched obscenely around Jihoon's dick, his cheeks hollow. Even from this angle, Jihoon can see his dick straining against the front of his pants, the way he’s shifting his hips like he’s trying hard not to come just from Jihoon's cock in his mouth.

“Cheollie.” Jihoon comes then, and Seungcheol swallows it all, his pink tongue darting out to lick away stray droplets.

“Perfect.” Seungcheol groans, pressing his face against Jihoon's hip and breathing hard.

Jihoon sags, the bone-deep satiety from coming abruptly turning his knees to jelly.

Seungcheol catches him before he can fall to the floor, hoisting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry as he stands.  

“I believe you said something about a bedroom?” Seungcheol says, carrying Jihoon down the hallway.

Jihoon smiles upside down, cheek pressed against his partners back.

* * *

 

Their first time is hands down the worst sex Jihoon's ever had.

They go through five condoms, the last three getting torn in sheer frustration.

They're both too hot for it, end up fumbling worse than virgins. Seungcheol's cock monstrously thick, Jihoon's ass unbearably tight. No matter how many fingers Seungcheol slides into Jihoon, he can't relax, wants Seungcheol inside him too badly, clamps around him with vicious pressure.

“You’re too tight. You’re going to castrate me with your asshole!” Seungcheol huffs at some point.

Jihoon ignores the pain, snaps at Seungcheol to hurry up and get on with it. “Get inside me now!”

The first thrust hurts worse than getting kicked in the balls.

Jihoon doesn't even have to push Seungcheol off. His partner pulls out with a yelp and a comic scramble—cups his dick— _shields_ it. His face, ashen. Jihoon drops onto his pillows, pants and winces.

"We need a new strategy," Seungcheol manages after they've both caught their breath.

Jihoon rolls away from Seungcheol's body and curls into a ball, pouts, eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. He's incredibly frustrated. He finally has Seungcheol naked and in his bed—his cock rock hard and aching for release—and it's not  _working_.

“It’s not fair.” He sniffs, cursing his tiny asshole.

Seungcheol chuckles fondly— _the jerk._

Jihoon feels the bed shift as Seungcheol climbs on top of him, his heavy hands gentle on Jihoon's hips—coaxing him to uncurl, easing him flat on his back.

Jihoon opens his eyes and sees Seungcheol's warm smile, his eyes sleepy with arousal. “Let’s take it slow cupcake. I’ll take care of you, just try and relax and for the love of God stop clenching.”

Jihoon can't stand the look on his face a moment longer, grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss, spreads his legs a little to accommodate Seungcheol's knees.

Seungcheol's mouth really is glorious, lips plush and giving, his tongue wicked. Jihoon's never been a fan of kissing while fucking—how it throws off the rhythm—but Seungcheol moves with him instinctively. He wraps his arm under Jihoon's neck to bring them closer. The effects are dizzying. Jihoon thrashes, his dick oozes on his stomach.

The lube cap snaps open near Jihoon's ear.

He winces just a little when Seungcheol's slick fingers rub around his hot, sore rim. Seungcheol mutters an apology, manoeuvres Jihoon's leg with his free hand, drops it across his shoulders and leans down, gets Jihoon exposed.

The first finger slips inside easily, the pace slower than before. Seungcheol stretches him in firm circles, distracts him magnificently with kisses, his tongue, until Jihoon is gasping and sputtering into the bedsheets.

“ _More_.”

Taking him at his word, Seungcheol works a second finger in, draws back, fucks them both back in. Again. Short jabs to open Jihoon up and stretch him out, creating enough space to cram in a third finger. Giving Jihoon the thick fullness he craves.

“ _Don’t stop_.” Jihoon cries out. He feels so good.

“I won’t.” Seungcheol places a kiss on the inside if Jihoon’s thigh, keeps him spread wide so he can thrust faster, harder.

Seungcheol's fingers occasionally rub across his prostate, make him moan. Seungcheol's forehead is dotted with perspiration, face steady in concentration. Jihoon can't stop panting. His body is barely registering the uncomfortable stretch anymore, filled with electricity that's crackling to escape.

"Christ," Seungcheol swears, shakes his head. Sweat hits Jihoon's chest, his neck. Seungcheol pulls his fingers out and Jihoon's foggy brain only registers the emptiness.

He's about to whine, but then Seungcheol is back over him, kisses him hard before he easily lifts Jihoon's hips, positions him further up the bed and licks away the puddle of precome low on his belly, squeezes Jihoon's cock with his strong fingers.

Jihoon's vision explodes. “Cheol—please.”

Seungcheol smiles above him. “Yeah, alright. I think you’re ready.”

He's _beyond_ ready now. He wiggles to roll onto his hands and knees—body gloriously boxed in by Seungcheol's muscles, his chest. He feels the heft of Seungcheol's cock thump against his asshole, goes hot all over.

"Fuck," he pants, shudders when Seungcheol grabs hold of his hips, tips him slightly downward to fix the angle.

"Grab the bed, cupcake." Seungcheol shushes desperately, rubbing his heavy palm up the bumps in Jihoon's slick spine. Jihoon had no idea he was even _making_ noise, but he is. He’s practically mewling as the thick head of Seungcheol’s cock pushes into him.

It takes three firm pushes to get Seungcheol in to the hilt. Jihoon's back bows under the pressure, his eyes roll back.

It feels like he’s being flayed alive.

Seungcheol's cock is so goddamn _thick_.

Each hard push inside rides Jihoon's ass relentlessly—nails his prostate. Jihoon squeezes around him helplessly, his cock so wet it drenches the bedsheets. He’s dreamt about this so many times he’s expecting to wake up, sticky and frustrated and tangled in his own sheets. But his dreams have never been like this. He’s never been held down and fucked so good he’ll feel it for days. Never been able to smell the sweat trickling down Seungcheol’s neck and chest, never bitten his lip during a hard thrust and tasted blood in his mouth. It’s never been this visceral, this desperate, this  _real_ , in dreams or out of them.

Jihoon has no idea how he holds out as long as he does, but he meets each one of Seungcheol’s thrusts—his orgasm coiling adamantly in his belly.

“You take it so good, don’t you,” Seungcheol says at one point, fingers curled around Jihoon’s dick and cock buried in him up to the hilt. “My good boy.”

And Jihoon  _has_  heard Seungcheol call him that before. Years ago. His body reacts to it much in the same way it did back then, suddenly and violently, and he comes with a startled shout—probably loud enough for anyone in the building to hear him.

He bucks furiously on Seungcheol as his orgasm crashes through him. Seungcheol helps milk him through it, grunts and bites down hard on Jihoon's shoulder when his ass becomes too tight to enjoy.

When Seungcheol's fingers reach down to cup his balls, Jihoon swears he manages to come again.

The second Seungcheol takes his hands off Jihoon, he collapses on the bed, swallows as much air as he possibly can with deep, heavy gasps. Seungcheol hisses as he withdraws, bites his fat bottom lip as he carefully peels the condom off his flushed, glossy dick.

Jihoon curls in on himself a little—body gone cold all over, tries to get his bearings after that world-class fucking.

His hole is burning raw, painfully stretched. He feels how open he is, suddenly can't stop fingering himself—feels the friction heat of the fucking Seungcheol just pounded into him, the greasy slide of the lube.

Seungcheol growls possessively, nudges away Jihoon's fingers and replaces them with his own, keeps up a gentle, circular motion until Jihoon's grinds back on his hand.

"Tell me what you were dreaming about. That night. You know which one. When you were moaning my name." Seungcheol pants in his ear.  

Jihoon doesn’t think he should be capable of blushing around Seungcheol anymore, but he manages it somehow. He buries his face into the pillow to hide it, but Seungcheol just chuckles darkly in his ear and tears off another condom.

“Don’t.” Jihoon huffs, rolling his hips back onto Seungcheol’s hand.

He feels Seungcheol tense behind him, fingers slowing their methodical stretching before withdrawing.

Jihoon scrambles to catch his wrist, turns his head to look at Seungcheol over his shoulder and pouts at the condom wrapper pinched between Seungcheol’s fingers.

He's never fucked without a condom before, was never with anyone long enough to even consider it.

Except Seungcheol isn't just anyone. They've been partners for over two years. Jihoon  _trusts_  him, plans on being with him for all the foreseeable future. He wants Seungcheol and nothing else between them, wants Seungcheol coming inside him, branding him.

The thought of it warms him to the core, makes him feel more alive than ever before.

“I meant—don’t use _it_. Fuck me bare.” He whispers.

Seungcheol’s eyebrows jump, then a grin slowly forms on his lips.

He curls around Jihoon’s sweat tacky back and pushes the tender head of his cock back inside for Jihoon to clench around.

Jihoon moans into his spit damp pillow, bites until he can taste the feathers, squeezes shamelessly around the thick head.

"Mine," Seungcheol purrs roughly, yanks Jihoon fully onto his dick like Jihoon weighs nothing.

They kiss slowly and sweetly before their movements become frantic. Jihoon luxuriates in the feel of Seungcheol on top of him, inside him. 

The sex is sloppy, hurts, is heavenly.

Jihoon claws at the sheets, grinds until his back cramps, then lies slick and boneless while Seungcheol drills into him, coming inside him and then just ghosting his fingers over Jihoon's skin while he recovers, only to thrust back inside of him as soon as he's hard.

Seungcheol leaves him devastated—makes him feel new—remade—with every kiss, every touch.

He tells Jihoon things—the softest, sweetest shit Jihoon doesn’t think he deserves, whispering benedictions into Jihoon's spine until Jihoon cries out, and Seungcheol is squeezing his eyes shut, groaning,  _Jihoon_ ,  _Jihoon_ , as he empties inside of him.

Afterward, Jihoon allows himself to be maneuvered and draped across Seungcheol, resting his head on Seungcheol’s broad chest.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.” Seungcheol whispers, tracing his fingertips along Jihoon's forearm, gently and without purpose.

Jihoon shuts his eyes and burrows his face into Seungcheol’s neck, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly breathless and dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with post-coital bliss.

“Yeah—I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) And...breathe.   
> 2) Well, I hope the blue balls were worth the wait. I was going to divide the chapter, seeing as it was almost 20,000 words, but I didn't want the blue ball brigade showing up at my house with their pitchforks....and blue balls.   
> 3) It's.....not over. Obviously. But...we're getting close. 2/3 chapters I estimate.   
> 4) Hope you enjoyed. Please let me know what you think! Feedback always appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) That picture of Seungcheol at the fan sign--dressed as a police officer. Just--yeah.  
> [Cop Cheol Hot AF](https://twitter.com/havoktreeftw/status/879002620802871296)  
> 2) Hundreds of ideas for a Jicheol cop AU. I went with this.  
> 3) What's that? I should finish a story before I start another one? I CAN'T HEAR YOU! LALALALALALA  
> 4) Hope you enjoy. Feedback appreciated.


End file.
